


Healing the Breach

by anothernaturalone



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Established Callum/Rayla (The Dragon Prince), Fighting, Gen, Magic, Politics, Strategy & Tactics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 61,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26220883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anothernaturalone/pseuds/anothernaturalone
Summary: Twenty-two years on from the Battle of the Storm Spire and the Treaty of Zubeia, the powers that be in reunited Xadia are working to strengthen the bonds between humans and elves that were sundered for so long. Leading this charge on the human side are King Ezran of Katolis and his trusty aide High Mage Callum - but the forces that wish for peace are fighting an uphill battle against racist sentiments and the remnants of dark magic, always ready to shatter relationships and take both humanity and elfkind back to the dark ages of segregation and war.
Relationships: Amaya/Janai (The Dragon Prince), Callum/Rayla (The Dragon Prince), Spoilers - Relationship
Comments: 18
Kudos: 18





	1. The Third Path

Episode 1 - The Third Path

* * *

_ Stories often begin with a problem. Quite a large one, at that. _

_ This is not necessarily a problem with stories themselves, but I wonder if we are unnecessarily burdening the fictional characters we create with things that they are expected to solve that we, the writers, would be powerless to. _

_ It seems a little cruel. _

  * King Ezran of Katolis, _On Life and Death_ , 18 RZ



* * *

Chapter 1

The study of the High Mage of Katolis had changed remarkably in the twenty-two years since its ownership had shifted. Granted, ninety-nine percent of that change had occurred when the new High Mage had decided to move in three years after it was allowed to him, but it had changed, and that was the important part.

There were now a lot fewer dead animals.

Callum zipped between tables crowded with runic circles and small, sparkling mechanisms, drawing lines in the air with an agile yet somewhat distracted finger. He missed a mark, cursed, and went back to the start.

Callum finally finished the particular incantation he was working on and returned to a specific runic circle inscribed in the floor. Stroking his beard (an action which he thought made him look dignified and, to the chagrin of all, actually did), the High Mage looked over the various chalk scribbles and glowing actions that painted the surface, and smiled.

Now for the fun part.

Standing in the middle of the circle, Callum raised his hands to shoulder-height, then dropped them into a complex series of squiggles and lines that traced silvery afterimages in the air as he chanted in Ancient Draconic, sending out words of power that made the air feel charged, as if it were excited to see the spectacle that was about to play out.

Callum somehow split his unsleeved arms into four, slashing downwards in the four cardinal directions. Illusion magic was technically incorporeal, but Lujanne had taught him that those rules deserved to be bent. Light spewed forth from the rents in space, pulling the runes Callum had already drawn towards them like spools of rope.

Callum’s grin deepened as he brought his hands together in a thunderous  _ clap _ , combining the four rents into one, contained in his hands, and then brought to his chest, where a shining silver amulet awaited. Callum steeled himself, and thrust the enchantment into the amulet.

A blinding flash of light rang throughout the chamber, and Callum fell back with a yelp. Sitting up, he winced as he smelled slightly burned cloth and felt mildly burned skin, but when he grabbed ahold of the amulet, it was cool to the touch.

“So, it worked?”

Callum snapped out of reverie and flipped into a standing guard position, and King Ezran, in turn, stopped leaning on the stairwell. Callum relaxed.

“I hope so.” Callum focused, then grew incredibly still. Ezran looked on confused, before a massive wind shook the chamber, threatening to blow his crown off. Callum’s image wavered and resolved into Callum finishing off the  _ Aspiro _ spell, aided by the air intakes he’d installed when he’d moved in.

“And that means?” Ezran took his hands off his head.

“It means that I can disguise my image long enough to get another spell out. Means enemy spellcasters can’t see what I’m doing if I’m setting up something big.”   
Ezran walked downwards, shoes softly tapping on the smooth mechanical stone steps. “Callum, the Dark Insurgency was defeated fifteen years ago. Shouldn’t you now be looking more at spells that help people - as opposed to spells that help you kill people?”

“The Insurgency is still at large, Ez - and the spells that help people, that ward off disease, that bring good rains and warm weather? They’ve been perfected already. That’s how elves farm - they don’t use - “

“Yes, yes, they don’t use the tools, equipment and strategies that we do because they can wiggle their fingers and make everything right for them. I know, Callum. That’s the entire reason this has worked for so long.

Now, Callum - Callum?” Ezran snapped his fingers in front of Callum’s eyes. Callum snapped out of a minor daze. “Yes?”

“Callum, we need to talk. You’re going to be present for the Moonshadow delegation - in fact, as a Moon mage, you’re going to be a large part of the negotiations. I’m just asking you to - “

_ Clink clink clink. _

The two men whirled around to see a small boy, dark blue horns peeking out behind his scruffy brown hair, in the middle of lifting a small magical mechanism, a metal cube with numerous slots and gears, from a low table. He had knocked over a set of small wooden balls that clumped together as they rolled around on the floor.

The room was frozen for a second.

The boy and the mage leapt into a frenzy of action, the boy disappearing through a door and the mage eagerly following, yelling “JUST YOU WAIT ‘TIL I CATCH YOU, BOY!”

Ezran casually sauntered out of the room. He was confident he could use his knowledge of the caverns under Katolis to severely outpace them.

Wherever they were going.

* * *

Chapter 2

Two streaks of colour and pure swiftness slashed across the corridors, the first dark blue and the second red and gold. The effect was to leave the onlooker in awe at the grace, speed and beauty of those who turned the chase into a wondrous art form.

The effect was also rather spoiled by the fact that the first streak was giggling incessantly, while the second was issuing a long string of admonishments.

Callum paused to draw breath at an intersection as he saw that the child had unwisely turned down a long, straight corridor, which he could observe at his leisure. That last “WHAT WOULD YOUR MOTHER THINK OF THIS” had been a tad too loud. 

Aaand he was gone. Just like that, the boy had ducked into a previously unseen corridor. Callum scowled and began running again.

The pair flowed through endless twists and turns in the rock beneath Katolis Castle, with the small boy - laughing and clutching the small cube with one hand - occasionally running up and bouncing off the walls. The mage’s eyes narrowed, and he slashed a rune in the air behind him, sending a small shockwave back through the caverns. A roaring sound filled the corridors, and a wave of air supported the mage, increasing his speed as he rode it down the twisting pathways.

Light.

The boy had opened a concealed door in the side of the corridor and disappeared through it. Dismissing the wave of air, Callum darted through the door, spotting the boy disappearing up the stairs towards the castle’s battlements, eschewing the actual steps in favour of jumping up the walls.

Callum took a deep breath as he raced towards the bottom of the stairs. “ _ Manus pluma volantis! _ dammit  _ Manus Pluma Volantis! _ ” The second time, the enchantment caught, and wings shot out from Callum’s arms.

Callum’s wings rose and then slashed down as he neared the bottom of the steps, and the mage arrowed up the stairwell and through the narrow doorway set at the top, feathers clipping the sides. Callum hovered in the air above the castle wall for a brief second, before crashing down on top of the boy in a tumble of wings, laughter and chaos.

They stopped at the feet of King Ezran, who had just emerged from a trapdoor in the floor.

Ezran leaned on a battlement and watched, considerably amused, as Callum - still on the floor - yanked the cube from the disappointed hands of the child and placed it within his robes, mage-wings now gone.

“Now, if your mother were on a diplomatic mission,” he said, booping the boy on the nose, “I would know, because I would be stuck with you. But, she is not, so you are being a very naughty boy by defying her wishes,”  _ boop _ , “shunning your lessons,”  _ boop _ , “and  _ stealing my stuff _ .”  _ Boop _ . The boy dissolved into paroxysms of laughter, horns clacking on the ground as he squirmed around, trying to displace Callum’s grip.

“You’re right he is.” The three hurriedly realigned their heads at the sound, Ezran and Callum with the same relieved smile and the boy’s grin quickly draining to an expression somewhere between sheepish and deeply afraid.

A Moonshadow Elf stood upon the wall, tapping her foot.

Callum lifted the mussy-haired boy onto his feet as Rayla approached and took him by the arm, causing him some evident discomfort. “Oskar, you have caused your father enough wasted time for one day. And you’ve missed the first half of Geography, you know what that means.”

Oskar groaned - he did know what that meant. Extra lessons after dinner. For some reason, consequences only seemed important to him after he’d done the thing.

“You know, I actually found that quite enjoyable,” Callum whispered to Ezran, earning him a sharp “Dinnae encourage him!” and a stern finger-pointing. Rayla took Oskar under one arm and leapt off the wall, running and leaping off over the rooftops of Katolis Castle.

“That child lives a very high-speed existence,” Ezran observed.

“It’s only fair - he subjects his parents to one.”

“True.”

The two stood in silence for a moment, due to a mixture of enjoying the view and not knowing what to say. The silence was technically not broken by Rayla, but it might as well have been as she leapt up over the inner lip of the wall, flipped, and landed without a sound.

“Slipped him in through the window - the teacher barely noticed.”

“Any chance he’ll get out again?”

“I locked the fireplace,” Rayla said with a… smile? She was getting somehow smaller - 

_ Blue sky _ .

Ezran jolted back to the real world. Callum and Rayla were staring, Callum beginning to ask if - 

_ Great wings _ .

It always took a little while to jumpstart the connection. Rayla was telling Callum not to get closer, good advice because he flailed around a lot when he - 

_ Dragon. Azymondias, Prince of the Dragons, to be precise. _

An Empath bond was meant to vanish around the age of ten, but Azymondias was twenty-two, and the ancient Sky magic, the bond usually forged between a mother and their child, had shown no signs of slowing. Perhaps that was because Ezran was human.

_ Ezran, _ Azymondias said - or, to be more precise, projected his thoughts.  _ I apologise for the interruption, but I need to use your maps. New evidence has come to light on the Sun Forge, and I wish to visualise the changes in trade routes that will result from that. _

Ezran asked,  _ Where are you? _ and Azymondias breathed in. Ezran could feel breath entering his chest too, but the odours he smelled were from Zym’s sensitive nose - and he had gotten better at figuring out what they meant.

_ Could you have picked a better time to call than, oh, say ten seconds before your arrival? _

Zym’s eyes picked out Katolis Castle on the horizon, and Zym replied,  _ I… should have. _

_ Talk later? _

_ Not much later _ .

Zym ended the link, and Ezran snapped back to the real world. Ez made the educated guess that he had been meld-walking, because Rayla was holding him upside-down off the battlements over a cart of hay.

Ezran got out the words “I can explain - “ before a dragon hit the wall and Rayla lost her grip, sending him falling into the cart. Ezran spat out hay and glared up at the curious dragon looking down. He was close enough for direct contact now - no mind-melding required.

_ This is all your fault. _

* * *

Chapter 3

Ezran was still picking hay out of his clothes when he got to the small garden which the High Mage and the Head Operative of the Diplomatic Corps had been cultivating since before the time of the Dark Insurgency. Flicking one of the small yellow irritants out from between his fingers, he jumped the gap between the floors and his feet impacted the soft dirt of the garden.

It was not a large garden, but then, being too large would have robbed it of its primary purpose. It was mostly grass, with a few carefully-sculpted rocks placed in the positions they had to be, and a pond around the outside. Trees surrounded the outside, but none made their way onto the grassy island in the centre of the castle, an island that Azymondias, Callum and Rayla were now staring at appraisingly.

This was Katolis’ trade map of Xadia, and it needed reworking.

“So, Zym,” Ezran began, finding another piece of hay in his sleeve, “the Sun Forge?”

_ It’s almost fully cleansed, after twenty-two years of work. _ Zym’s head, roughly the size of Ezran’s torso, snaked down from his perch and tapped the small model of Lux Aurea on its tip. Zym’s mind extended out to Callum and Rayla, and Ezran faintly felt their minds through the connection.  _ Sunfire Elves are going to wish to move back to the city now that their main source of power and the focus of their worship is going to be restored in a few weeks. _

The three gaped at the dragon. Rayla was the first to speak, as Callum matter-of-factly shifted a few stone pieces.

“The Elves said that such a cleansing process would take centuries! How have they been deceived for this long? Or - “

_ High Mage Floreion says that they had originally believed they were cleansing the Sun Forge as a whole, and were charting their progress by how much it had lightened - but they have recently realised they were drawing Dark Magic from the  _ centre _ , and so now only a miniscule layer remains on top. It still looks much the same, but within, it is restored. _

Ezran took a piece of paper out from his pocket, scribbled the message on it, and gave it to a servant. “See that this gets to the Crow Lord, or failing that, the Crow Master. I want this message in every town, village and hamlet in Katolis, as well as in the hands of Aanya, Fareeda, Ahling and… the new King, before the week is out.” The servant nodded and left, and Ezran returned to the task on hand - the immensely interesting task, he was sure, of rearranging the stone pieces representing immigrants, trade routes and armies to suit the current situation.

Rayla actually did find the task interesting - it was like a game of erasha, except there were no opponents and all you had to do to win was move the pieces to where they should be. It was tricky to predict the movements of thousands of people and millions of tons of stuff based on news, but she and Callum had gotten substantially better at it over the years.

Ezran mostly just watched them do their thing, Rayla noted as she flicked out her left sword, reaching over and neatly sending a Population piece into her hand with a practised flip of her wrist. He was King, but his was the mind of a justice - someone who chose arbiters, judged cases, decided laws to make Katolis a better place. He left other things to the experts - religious policy was High Cleric Opeli’s domain, General Amaya oversaw half of the military, and his brother and sister-in-law? The economists. Rayla had seen that word in an old, musty book that Callum had been intent on reading because “it might contain some reference to a spell” (it hadn’t) and had made a point of overusing it regularly. It sounded  _ very _ important.

_ Are you sure that Evenere’s elven population is just going to… pack up and go home?  _ Azymondias queried as he looked at some pieces Callum was reshuffling.

“We should expect some movement, even if Evenere’s elves are some of the best-received in the Human Kingdoms. Besides, this is barely a few hundred people,” Callum said, wiggling the piece, “out of tens of thousands.” Callum chucked the pieces across the island, and they came to a stop, aided by the air, close to Lux Aurea.

“Is that everyone?”

“By my estimates, it’s probable that this number of elves are going to move back.”

“How probable?” Rayla asked with a small smile as she gathered up the displaced Human Population pieces.

“At least five,” Callum said. Rayla’s grin widened, but Zym’s next words iced over her face.

_ What are you doing with the Human pieces? _

Rayla stopped and sighed. “When the elves come back, they’re going to displace humans - there isn’t enough space for everyone, and elves will be more… wanted. So the humans will go - well, we don’t know. We’ll try to make space for them here.”

Confusion and anger radiated from Zym, tempered by bitterness from Ezran. Ez had understood this part of migration for some time.

_ How can they do that? The humans did nothing wrong, and these elves are going to take them from their homes? Their livelihoods?! _

“They’re not doing it on purpose, Zym.” Callum crossed his arms as Rayla put the Human pieces into a Transit box. “It’s just, when these elves move back, some people are going to want elves to work for them more than humans. And the elves that don’t? They’re siding with the enemy. They might even crack under the pressure. So, some of the human farmhands will be out of a job. They’ll have to move.”

_ But… but you’re  _ not _ enemies, dammit! We’ve been trying to make this clear for twenty years. Why hasn’t it worked? _ Zym stamped his perch, cracking the stone slightly. Beforehand, the castle stonemasons had restored the dais upon which Zym looked upon the garden every time he cracked it. Now, they settled for every time it collapsed.

Rayla shrugged. “Honestly, Zym, we don’t know. It took Ezran years to bring Katolis to the point where elves weren’t regularly killed for the number of fingers they had - and that was with the aid of your magic.” Rayla placed the Transit box, utilitarian with spindly legs that allowed it to straddle most major landmarks, over the Breach. “Displacement is something we’re going to have to live with for a while.”

Zym lapsed into a long period of silence as Callum and Rayla cleaned up the board, snapping Population pieces together until the two hundred or so that had been moved could be picked up and moved as a single piece. Ezran shifted slightly in his position, then stiffened, his eyes widening. Rayla looked over, concerned - Ez waved it off, but he sank not back to normalcy but into a haunted expression, hunched over with arms crossed. Eventually, he nodded, and Zym’s silence ended. With a few reserved words of goodwill for Callum and Rayla, the dragon - giant to the humans but still small for his kind - spread his wings and, with an ozone-smelling  _ crack _ , vanished into the sky. Ezran watched, with a distant look in his eyes, then left the garden.

* * *

Chapter 4

Mage Artorc, Moonshadow Elf, former Wardkeeper and delegate from the Silvergrove, strode with his delegation through the double doors as they swung open and directly towards King Ezran as he sat attentively on the edge of his throne, his High Mage at his side. He realised, perhaps for the first time, that although much about the Human Kingdoms had changed since he had begun his diplomatic duties, the same could not be said for the throne rooms - especially that of Katolis. He felt the strange notion that even the candles were the same he’d first seen twenty years ago on his first mission, although that was, of course, impossible.

He smiled at the notion.  _ Impossible _ . Twenty years ago, many things were impossible.

The King sat forward in his simple grey tunic, seemingly seeing through Artorc with his piercing blue eyes - troubling for a moon mage more than most, someone who could see through you. Some even said that he could read minds. “Greetings, Artorc of the Silvergrove.  _ Nostra cogitamenta sunt apertae _ .” A Draconic formality - the young King knew those well.

“Greetings, King Ezran,” Artorc said. “May I say, I am puzzled to see your High Mage in attendance. I had thought - “

“That discussions of Moonshadow immigration to the Human Kingdoms might not be of interest to the  _ human _ Guardian of the Moon Nexus?” The Mage eyed Artorc icily as he said the words.

“A defunct position. The Nexus is freely used now - as these negotiations will set in stone.”

“Have you forgotten how I came to have this title? Believe me, I would rather not be - “

“Enough.” Ezran dropped his voice to a whisper, somehow gaining more power from the lowering in volume than he ever could have garnered from increasing it. “I would ask the both of you to remain civil in this peaceful discussion, as our nations would wish. Letting hatred define international relations is one of the worst mistakes a statesman can make, and I will not allow it to become mine.” His eyes swept the room like an incorporeal scythe, sending Callum, Artorc and the various other delegates from the Silvergrove into quietude. “Now, we will speak on the matter of the Druids. High Mage, what preparations have been made for their return?”

Callum stepped forth - Artorc’s trained eye could discern the irregularities in breath and heartbeat that belied someone controlling their temper. Then, Callum’s face and body shifted, becoming nigh unreadable, although still recognisably human. Artorc smelled Moon magic.

They may have had their differences, but the Mage had to respect the other’s talent, a respect bolstered when Callum sprinkled dust over the floor, producing a holographic image of the Nexus. It was most likely opal dust - Artorc could see the light from underneath as it burned.

“The houses and libraries have been restored to their rightful condition. I estimate them, along with the surrounding moonberry and  _ freas _ fields, to be able to support a settlement of at least fifty, which I believe far exceeds your initial party. The large supply of  _ freas _ slugs, you will be pleased to note, is undisturbed. Finally, the portal to Arvmundis is nearing the point where it can be activated on demand. Warn whoever oversees the final placements that there are elvish remains in Arvmundis.”

“Elvish remains? In a place beyond death?”

“When the portal was closed, some were… trapped on the other side. Possibly, the severing of the portal somehow fundamentally tampered with the magic, or there was some supernatural force that killed the elves. Your Druids could probably find out more - Lujanne and I never stayed for more than a few minutes, for fear of the portal collapsing again. Personally, I believe they died of mundane starvation - their positions indicate that.”

“Impossible,” Artorc said, crossing his arms and scowling. “Arvmundis does not allow for that - it is a world beyond death.” Unfortunately, the High Mage seemed to be perhaps more adamant.

“When I was in Arvmundis, I felt no invigoration, no burst of power. I felt hungry in Arvmundis, I felt tired in Arvmundis, I felt no different in Arvmundis. I never was convinced that Arvmundis was a world beyond death, as you say, and Lujanne agreed with me.”

A ripple of barely-concealed outrage ripped through the Moonshadow delegation, and a young elf by the name of Orasava stepped forth from the group. “Don’t you dare include Lujanne in your transgressions!” Ezran bowed his head, seemingly in deep concentration, but he was unimportant at this moment. What was important was the Moon mage disrespecting centuries of tradition and ancestral lore standing in front of them, who seemed to shift again, letting the illusion of calmness go and revealing an emotion that Artorc had seen only rarely.

True  _ rage _ .

“Perception is the only thing you can trust,” Callum responded in a low and threatening voice, “one of the pillars of Moonshadow philosophy,  _ if you recall _ . Lujanne respected her perception over tradition, she fulfilled her greatest role as a Moon mage,” the voice rose almost to a shout, Callum stepping forward and stabbing a finger at the off-guard delegate, “and I will not allow you to profane her memory by - ” 

The High Mage stopped, his head snapping into a new position, glancing backwards, into what appeared to Artorc to be empty air. His expression shifted, beginning wide-eyed and shocked, then lessening in tension as he shut his mouth, nodded with eyes downcast, and turned back to the delegates.

The Mage sighed, his anger now reserved, like a shadowpaw newly caged. “I ask not that you believe me on this, only that you entertain it as a possibility.”

Orasava opened her mouth, but Artorc silenced her with a wave of his hand. “Let it go.” Speaking to the King, who was now watching Artorc intently, he gave a final formality and gave his delegation the order to disperse. Each had their task with one or more minor administrators within Katolis castle, to ensure that the Moon Druids would integrate into Katolian life as smoothly as possible. Artorc himself turned on his heel and strode out of the doors. The High Mage’s explanatory work was done - hopefully Artorc would be able to speak to the King alone.

Callum put his own hand over Rayla’s as Rayla squeezed his shoulder, then spun him around for a hug. “I’m sorry. I let… me get the better of me.”

Rayla smiled. “It’s confusing, Callum - why you have to fight them on  _ everything _ . Some things, I understand. Others...”

“But they needed to know! Rayla, you’ve been to Arvmundis - you know how devastating it is. Like having a rug pulled out from under your feet that’s been there all your life.”

“Quoting Lujanne, I see. Well, if you remember her so well, you’ll remember that both she and I accepted it. We were fine.” Looking over the throne room, she saw that one blank-faced delegate had not left, standing with his head slightly bowed and hands behind his back.

“It seems that someone is in need of your services,” she said, turning Callum slightly back around to see the lone weaponsmith waiting to see his adopted daughter.

* * *

Chapter 5

Ezran found Artorc standing in the Hall of the Once and Future, staring up at the picture of his father.

“I don’t blame you,” Ezran said as he stood beside the elf, a full head shorter than he was. “The pieces on that erasha board were badly placed. Nobody knew what they were doing at the beginning, and so there were casualties at the end.”

Artorc smiled wanly, eyes flicking between the flesh-and-blood King Ezran and the portrait of King Harrow, standing proudly with his High Mage. “Some of those pieces should never have been carved - but I am glad that one was.” He pointed to Harrow. “From what I’ve heard of him, the part of Harrow that was King of Katolis never really died - he just changed his eye colour.”

“I’m honoured to be thought of so highly.”

“Although you seem to have made the same mistakes.”

The blue eyes hardened. “Callum is no Dark Mage, and the Skywing Elves know him as a mage of integrity, honour and deep respect. So do the Sunfire Elves. You’re letting your past differences get in the way of collaboration - both of you.”

“He has no respect, King Ezran, not even for you.”

“That’s the point.” Ezran pointed at Harrow’s High Mage, Viren. The Ruination of Lux Aurea, the most powerful Dark Mage in the history of humanity, the rumoured leader of the Dark Insurgency, despite his death at the Storm Spire. Ezran was finding those rumours harder and harder to discount. 

“Crownguard Soren told me once that, on the night of my father’s death, High Mage Viren tried to switch his soul into the body of another, sparing him and keeping Katolis safe. My father refused. Two thousand human soldiers and more than five hundred elves died at the battle of the Storm Spire because of my father’s pride, because he didn’t let others disrespect him. 

That’s what I hope to avoid. That’s Callum’s job - to act as a measuring stick for my rule. To watch me, and to tell me when I’m falling. And I do the same for him.” 

Ezran gestured to the opposite side of the hall, to a picture of a young boy, no more than twelve, with a teenager by his side dressed in a sleeveless red and grey tunic, arms bare and showing white runic markings. “We help each other to function. The King and the High Mage - both positions that require more self-control than one person can have.”

“You give up respect to further let others control your rule. That could be seen as weakness.”

“It has been.”

There was a pause. Artorc felt a little uncertain. “But?” Ezran gave a sharp exhale as he smiled. 

“I’ve seen weakness. Weakness is grasping for power, destroying others in a mad scramble for safety. Giving up power to ensure your irrationality doesn’t destroy others is control. And if that,” he raised a finger to High Mage Viren, “is what good men do  _ without _ control, then I’ll give up all the power in the world against it.”

Deep in what had once been Viren’s study, a High Mage, a weaponsmith and an invisible elf knelt on the stone floor, carved with sigils and magical channels. Ethari couldn’t see Rayla, but Callum guided him to her hand as he chanted, the carved runes filling with liquid light as he did so. Ethari shut his eyes as he came into contact with Rayla, his lined face first tensing, then relaxing as he smiled, holding Rayla’s hand tightly.

Callum finished chanting and rose his hands above his head. Wisps of energy began to coalesce from around the room, drawn from the moonstone pillars that Callum had replaced himself every year since he had learned the Moon arcanum. The night outside shone bright in here, and any enchantment that could be completed in the light of the Moon could be completed in the room.

Breaking another enchantment was a piece of cake. If one knew how.

The wisps filled the cracks in the stone, shifting and creating turbulence as they flowed down the narrow pathways. Runes began to light up all over the circle, and a veil opened in the centre.

The ghosting enchantment.

Callum reached towards the veil and pulled with hands dripping with light. This was probably the least sophisticated part of the enchantment, but it worked, and it was necessary. The light on his hands sizzled as it contacted the enchantment, corroding away large strips that fragmented into darkness and vanished.

Callum pulled the veil over the circle, to predetermined locations that latched onto the enchantment and held it tight. Once all six of them were set, the High Mage shook the remaining light off his right hand and slammed it down in the combined centre of the circles.

The candles blew out, and the room was plunged into darkness.

As the High Mage relit the candles around the room with Sun magic, Ethari took the opportunity to bear-hug his daughter, tears of happiness in his eyes.

“You’ve grown so much, little banther!” Ethari ended the hug and began gesticulating. “Come on, off with the hood, I want to see your horns.” A sharp intake of breath. “Wedding bands! I’ve seen your husband’s already. They’re beautifully carved. I could have done better, but...”

“Ask Callum how his stay on,” Rayla said, grinning and directing Ethari’s gaze towards the crown of Callum’s rapidly moving head, where two slightly-curved rectangles of metal, three centimetres by ten, sat nestled within his mussy hair. Ethari raised an eyebrow, tilting his head, and Callum replied, “Welded,” returning to a cross-legged position within the circle.

“Wait, welded?” Ethari sat back slightly in shock.

“Welded to his thick skull,” Rayla confirmed. Callum grinned.

“Your husband is crazy.”

“I know better than most - “ Rayla’s expression shifted - “hello, stranger.” Callum and Ethari turned to follow Rayla’s eye, meeting the embodiment of regality and gravitas standing in the doorway. 

It took a lot of force-of-will and presence to convince anyone that King Ezran was being completely serious, but King Ezran had force-of-will and presence that was sitting on musty shelves in the recesses of his mind, untouched these past thirty-two years. “High Mage Callum, we need to talk at your earliest convenience. I’m sorry to disturb you, but this is a matter of high importance.”

Callum looked at the two elves. “Shall I leave you two to catch up?” At their nods, he flipped up from his seated position and walked out the door, King Ezran falling into step alongside him.

* * *

Chapter 6

“Callum, a delicate matter has been brought to Azymondias’ attention, and I personally… agree with his decision on the matter, despite its consequences.” The two walked under a starry sky, the Brightstrike clearly emblazoned along its centre.

“What is this matter?”

Ezran stopped at a lookout, one that provided a view of Katolis’ capital city, now named Resmark after the myth. In the mere twenty-two years since Ezran had ascended the throne, it had grown fourfold, now completely surrounding the river and the cliffs that Katolis Castle sat on. The combination of elvish magic and human farming methods had accomplished that.

“Since I took the throne, we’ve championed one method of arbitration between elves and humans - the dragons. Zubeia and the other archdragons have gladly taken on the task of being the neutral ground between our races, despite our long history of enmity, and  _ they _ have been stellar at the task. But there’s a problem. The Dragon Prince is bonded to a human.

As Zym becomes more and more involved in the politics of the continent, his allegiances will come more and more into question - after all, I’m inside his mind for a substantial portion of the day. So, the elves have…  _ requested _ that Zym and I end the bond, to preserve the dragons’ neutrality.”

Callum was caught off guard. “What? Ez, your bond defines both of you. You would both be irretrievably different people without it. How - “

“Exactly, Callum. The future King of the Dragons thinks like a human. That’s the problem.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. And elves and humans think the same way! You know this better than anyone, Ez.”

“Another point. The elves don’t know that. They’re scared.”

“Then tell them!”

“I’m a human, with a bond to one of the most powerful creatures in the world. Of course I would say that.”

“Why - “ Callum sighed. “Why are you this annoyingly good at arguing against yourself?”

Ezran sat down on the flagstones, dragging a finger through the dust. “Because Zym and I both went through the exact same arguments you did. And arrived at the exact same conclusion. If we want the elves to remain on our side, we can’t take the neutral ground for ourselves. Good fences make good neighbours, and the dragons are a fence we can’t afford to make a hole in.

The elves sent the necessary spells to break an Empath bond with Zym. I put them in your study - Zym requested that you be the one to break the bond. He trusts you.”

“I… I thank him for his trust.” Callum bowed, then turned and stalked off the battlements. Ezran shut his eyes, lying back on the battlements, and mind-melded with Zym. 

This time, Ez was the one initiating the meld, so there was no juddery start. Despite the fact that the Sky magic came from Zym, he had always seemed to be less expert at controlling it.

Zym’s mind entered his own, and the great dragon said,  _ So. Callum will do it? _

_ Yes, he will. He doesn’t like it, but he knows it’s the right thing to do - working to strengthen human-elf relations. _

_ That’s his life these days. That and Rayla - which is the same thing, I suppose. _

_ Nah, _ Ezran shook his head, gazing up at the stars.  _ Rayla’s practically one of us now. _

A ripple of worry came from Zym.

_ What’s wrong? _

_ One of  _ us _? Whatever happened to ‘elves and humans aren’t different’? _

Ezran winced.  _ You’re right. I can’t afford to think like that. It’s a good thing you’re here, to catch my slips. _

He realised something.  _ Oh. _

Zym’s scales ruffled - Ezran could feel it like goosebumps, but ten times… worse? It wasn’t exactly a terrible feeling.  _ Yes. That’s new. An argument to… refuse them. I didn’t think there were any. _

Ezran sat up, placing his head atop two clenched fists and crossing his legs.  _ Is that argument more powerful than the others, though? _

_ Possibly - but we can’t tell the elves that it’s a factor. _

_ No indeed. The right end of the stick - minor slips and things that can’t be allowed to grow - is at the less drastic end of what they could choose to believe, and from what we know, people always choose the more drastic end. The elves would probably end up believing I’m a tyrannical overlord who has to be reined in daily. _

Zym laughed in their mind, voice booming over the silence of the night.  _ Let’s both think about it. Callum will understand, and he’s the one doing the enchantment. _

_ You’re right. Good night, Zym. _

_ ‘Till we meld again. _

Callum wearily got his notebooks out and began tracing the complex unbinding runes the elves had sent. He’d already memorised the pathways - this was an exercise he went through every time. It was as if his brushstrokes allowed him to understand the swirls, not just on a mechanical level, but conceptually - as if he was somehow drawing the spell into himself, forcing it to become part of  _ his _ identity, not that of some musty scholar sitting in a library somewhere.

Identity. That was a big part of the Sun arcanum - one let both one’s creative and destructive aspects shine, asserting them on the world, as a part of proving their importance. Some said that nothing could be created or destroyed, only changed. The Sun arcanum was about disproving that, proving that  _ everything _ was simultaneous creation and destruction, and about revelling in it.

Callum ruefully drew a parallel between that and their warrior culture. The Sunfire Elves weren’t as militaristic as a whole as humanity, but they certainly had their… firebrands. Perhaps that was why Sunfire half-elves were the most common by far.

He finished his drawing, and turned his gaze towards the wooden blocks he kept on a bench close to the centre. Wooden cubes were endlessly useful in magic, and apparently, despite the apparent rules of an Empath bond, one could form and break one between inanimate objects too.

Callum held out a hand, and two blocks zipped into it. Testing time.

* * *

Chapter 7

“Knock knock. Is everyone in a state of decency, sobriety and vitality?”

Tiadrin looked up from her axe - it had a nasty nick in it from a shield, something that was going to take at least an hour of sharpening to take out - and called out, “Sir, we got back two minutes ago. I haven’t even thought of getting out of my armour.” A number of weary commiserations emanated from different parts of the dormitory. It was dark, which meant that everyone else wanted to sleep.

The door opened, and Captain Soren leaned through. He paused, mouth open and one finger extended upwards, for about five seconds before he dropped the finger and twisted his face into a frustrated frown. “Hang on, I forgot what I was going to ask. I’ll just - no, wait, never mind, got it. Tiadrin,” he said, pointing the finger at the young half-elf, “your mother, brother and grandfather are outside, requesting your presence.”

Tiadrin placed her axe back against her shield, standing up. “My… grandfather, sir?” A number of dissonant cognitive images flashed through her mind. Ghosts and hallucinations were both ruled out in the span of around a second.

“Your mother’s father. Sort of. Have you ever… heard of Ethari?”

“No.” Tiadrin came to the door, to view her mother, ever the respectable but dangerous dual member of Katolian society and Moonshadow philosophy, her younger brother Oskar, more the young Sky mage than ever, and… a Moonshadow elf. Hair taking on the darker silver of old age,  _ kaldari _ markings not as pronounced as normal but somehow more refined, and a kindly face set on top of a willowy body that didn’t remind her at all of her mother. Tiadrin tentatively walked down the steps, all-too-aware of her overwhelmingly human plate armour, towards the trio, trying to embody the concept of  _ what in the nine heavens is going on? _

Rayla smiled when she saw the young half-elf. “Ethari, this is Tiadrin, my eldest. It’s a pity she didn’t bring her axe, or she’d have something to show him!” she shouted up the stairs. Soren took the reminder and vanished inside, emerging with Tiadrin’s axe and shield. “Catch!” he shouted, tossing the weaponry down the stairs.

Tiadrin took a look at the falling weapons, took a running start up the stairs, then jumped, flipping in midair and catching her killing implements, dropping into a roll back down the steps and emerging kneeling on the ground in front of her… family?

Ethari chuckled. “You’ve raised them well! Apart from young Oskar’s apparent heresy.” Oskar grinned and blew a small  _ Aspiro _ into the hedge. He was getting better - a few months ago, he’d barely managed to exceed his own breath with the spell. Rayla urged Tiadrin to show Ethari the weapons, which she did. Oohing and aahing, the elderly elf quickly found the activation sequence, twisting the bottom of the axe onto the top of the shield in such a way that the shield folded up and became part of the shaft of a polearm, a spear-head shooting out of the axe’s tip. 

“She made this herself?” Ethari asked, laughing incredulously and giving the halberd an experimental swing, before handing it back to Tiadrin. She nodded proudly. “Elf after my own heart. Shall we?” 

The two grandchildren ran ahead through the torchlit streets of Resmark, the father and daughter remaining reservedly behind. 

“So, how did you get them to convince you to come?” Rayla glanced at Ethari. “The Council, I mean.”

“Actually, it was specifically to remove the ghosting enchantment. Despite what  _ they _ think about you, you’re Katolis’ main diplomat to the elves, and the Silvergrove just couldn’t cope any longer with an entire country being off-limits to them. They needed an intermediary - preferably one who didn’t vehemently oppose the idea of your existence. I actually heard that Callum had invented a permanent, person-specific break from the Council.”

As he spoke, a surge of regret, worry and sorrow crawled up Rayla’s spine and settled on her shoulders. A cloak of darkness, cutting at her neck and collarbone, constricting around her. No. Ethari  _ couldn't _ know. If he did, he'd hate her, she knew it - but what if she were deserving of that hate? Did she have the right to deceive him?

“Rayla, what’s wrong?” Ethari placed a hand on his daughter’s shoulder, concern drawing his face and hand rigid. She shied away, suddenly feeling she didn’t even deserve the contact. She'd not told him when she was writing - when she could burn her letters before she sent them, where she couldn't see his face - but  _ here _ ,  _ now _ , she couldn't keep him believing a version of her that hadn't done the things she had.

“I’m sorry!" Rayla stepped back, away from Ethari, turning her back to him. "I should have told you before, I should have made it right, I should never have done it in the first place! Please, I’m sorry!” Rayla’s vision began to blur, her sense of up and down, left and right blurring with it. She could feel guiding hands on her shoulders, urging her to sit down. Rayla felt a bench behind her - probably over to one side of the road - and sat, sobbing as Ethari cradled her. Like a little child.

“On the night of King Harrow’s death… I fought Runaan. I thought the egg being returned would spare the humans -  _ should _ spare the humans - and Runaan refused to call off the attack, so I - I fought him, I thought it was  _ right _ ! And then… he died, like the rest of them. He  _ died _ . As surely as it had been by my own hands.”

Ethari hugged her harder. Only harder. Eyes tight shut, taking Rayla in a vice-like grip that seemed to defy the world, challenging it to try to force the bond apart. Because it  _ could _ only try.

She fought off the panic, forcing herself to breathe hard and long to stave off the terrible well of emotions, looking fearfully up into Ethari’s face as he opened his eyes.

“Little banther.” Ethari smiled, even as tear-tracks made their way down his cheeks. “I made my peace with what happened on that night a long time ago. What’s important isn’t what side you fought on, it’s  _ how _ you fought, it’s  _ why _ you fought, and it’s  _ that _ you fought. Did you flinch?”

Rayla shook her head.

“Did you run?”

Rayla shook her head.

“Did you give everything you had to the fight that you believed in?”

Rayla gave a shaky smile, and nodded.

“Then you were the best you could have been that night. 

I love you as a daughter, Rayla. You  _ are _ my daughter, I believe that with all my heart. And if there’s one thing that you’ve taught me, it’s that nothing you do will ever break that love. And nothing besides you could do it either.”

The children had stopped, and were looking back at the unexpected turn of events. Rayla wiped the tears away with the back of her hand, and stood up with Ethari, calling Tiadrin and Oskar back.

It was going to be a big day for Tiadrin tomorrow. She needed her rest.

* * *

Chapter 8

Rayla crossed her arms and rolled her eyes as she, yet again, found Callum in his study, doing magic at an ungodly hour of the morning. The mussy-haired idiot was doing something with two of the wooden blocks he'd had made for him out of scrap timber - although thankfully, he hadn’t managed to set either on fire yet.

Rayla cleared her throat, and said mussy-haired idiot jumped and turned in his seat. “Hello, dear,” Callum said, smiling, “I’ve just been experimenting with Empath bonds. Did you know they can be made between inanimate objects?”

This was his usual strategy - try to distract Rayla by talking about magic. The aim was apparently to get her interested in the experimentation herself, which never worked, although Rayla was dimly aware of the fact that she had fallen asleep during some memorably boring explanations, allowing him to spend the night with his runes - so maybe that was his plan. Callum tended to surprise people with his logic, which didn’t so much attempt to outwit others as it just did so by default, finding solutions others hadn’t thought about.

On this occasion, though, the magic  _ did _ pique Rayla’s interest. Not the explanation, but the application.

“Is this about the elves’ wishes for neutrality?”

Callum’s face swivelled quickly in her direction, puzzled. “You know about that?”

“They’ve been talking about it for a while now. About how Ezran’s bond to Zym is messing things up for them and the dragons. Most of it’s just xenophobia, but xenophobia is a powerful force.”

Callum nodded. “Ez and Zym have decided it’s probably for the best. I’m just making and breaking a bond between the blocks, but... “ Callum exhaled sharply. “I’d like to do it between two living things, just as a test. I don’t think I’ll feel I’m ready until I do that, but, well, everyone else is - “

“Asleep. Like we should be.”

Callum got his idea face. It wasn’t a  _ face _ as such - just subtle shifts in his expression - but it was instantly recognisable to the well-trained. “Hang on - you’re not asleep, I’m not asleep - I can make one between you and me!”

“Is that wise?” Rayla asked suspiciously, to which Callum said, “They only last for about a minute, unless you’re a Sky dragon in disguise - and it would have to be a pretty good disguise.” Callum drew a few runes, muttered an incantation under his breath, and a line of brilliant white light shot between the pair’s heads.

And Rayla  _ was _ Callum.

It was a severely dissociative experience. The emotions and sensations of the husband and wife mixed together, picking at strands, reinforcing where they aligned. Rayla briefly felt exactly what it was like to have five fingers - very strange. But overlying that was a severe understanding of the other person - their fears, knowledge, irrationalities - and that was exhilarating, giving each other the true certainty of knowing that there was at least one other who cared about them as they cared about the air they breathed.

It seemed to be both Rayla and Callum who breathed in, sliced a few runes into the air, and spoke the words that broke the bond - after they both felt they’d spent enough time in it, revelling in each others’ presence. The consciousnesses separated - neither body moving noticeably, but the minds recoiling, ending the high.

One thing troubled Rayla - and it seemed to trouble Callum too.

“You’d die for me,” Callum said, hollow-eyed. “I’d always just accepted it as a fact. The sky is blue. Elves are born with arcana. I’d disregard my own sense of self-preservation for Rayla the Moonshadow Elf. But… it frightens me that you think exactly the same way.”

Rayla nodded. “It’s a bit hypocritical, but… actually, do you know? Now I’m actually thinking about it, I’m thinking it’s a bad thing less and less. We’d die for each other. That’s alright, isn’t it?”

“Not when it might actually happen.” Callum sat back. “But nothing’s really alright when mixed with death. I suppose that this is the most alright it can be. We accept it?”

“We accept it.”

They lapsed into silence, and Rayla voiced her other objection. “It seems… so  _ wrong _ to be destroying those when you can make them just as easily. But if it pacifies the elves and makes sure the dragons remain neutral, I won't oppose it.” Standing up, Rayla stretched and said, “You’ve got enough practice? You can do it now? We can go to bed?”

Callum had his idea face on again.

"Oh, what's it this time?"

"Make them just as easily… if you're a Sky dragon… the bond will remain…" A slow grin wormed its way to the corners of Callum's face. He stood up from his chair, sliding it back and muttering to himself. "I need to tell Ez!" made its way out of the fug of murmuring.

Rayla had had enough. It was time to break out the brute force.

"Nope! You are going to  _ bed _ with  _ me _ to  _ sleep _ and you shall do your weird Sky magic in the morning, when you are well-rested. That - is - final," Rayla said as she hauled Callum bodily backwards and began the long walk back upstairs.

Rayla regularly won arm-wrestles with foolhardy, muscle-bound farmhands and war veterans who didn't understand the ability of elven muscle fibres to compact as they multiplied. Dragging a weakly-protesting, heavily-fatigued mage upstairs was hard, but quite certainly not impossible.

* * *

Chapter 9

“King Ezran, you’re going to have to understand someday that you have a bedroom, and you’re expected to sleep in it. Like a king.”

The stone of the battlements dug into Ezran’s back as he shifted his position and sat up with a groan. Eleven bedrolls surrounded his position on the battlements, with young Crownguard trainees in various stages of sleep occupying eight of them and one very awake Captain Soren occupying the other one.

The Crownguard had been an institution since the earliest days of Katolis, but Soren had been an oddity in more ways than one when he had been chosen. For one, he had been the tender age of seventeen, and for two, he had been a swordsman - for the Crownguard were not a group of soldiers but a group of spies. Their motto was “Destroy the threat, protect the crown”, and in that they were experts, uncovering secret plots against Katolis and disintegrating them from the inside. However, Soren had always thought that his way of protecting King Ezran was a lot more direct and effective than the other Crownguards’ methods, and so, with Ezran’s permission, he had begun training a new Crownguard - composed of people like he had been, idealistic fighting men and women with the skill and intelligence required to protect King Ezran in a more direct way.

Oh, and who were, on average, seventeen.

“I’m not complaining, by the way,” Soren said amicably, seemingly unperturbed by the fact that it was the morning and therefore everyone should be grumpy. “This was a brilliant exercise in protecting someone who doesn’t want to be protected, and I am proud of everyone here for creating a good formation and making a lookout roster on their own. But seriously, King Ezran, it’s easier to make sure you’re alive when you’re in there,” he pointed to the Crown Tower, “than when you’re out here.” He pointed to the wall beneath them.

“We’re… on a wall.” Ezran vaguely gestured. “By definition the most defensible location in a castle.”

“Yes, which is why we want you inside those walls as well as these walls.”

Ezran crossed his arms. “They’ll never think to look for me out here. They might even trip over me and fall to their deaths in the courtyard below. Badabing, badaboom, threat destroyed, crown protected.”

Soren closed his eyes in what was either mild disgust, frustration, or boundless appreciation for Ezran’s genius. Ezran figured he could probably rule out the first one. And the second.

“Well, my king,” the eyes opened again, staring deadpan into Ezran’s face, “we come to the matter of the day’s business, which is administering to Resmark’s economy in the regions of,” he checked a list, “sewage, roads and the black market for crabs. And you placed a reminder for three in the afternoon for ‘Get the High Mage’. I assume you know what that’s for?

King Ezran? Your majesty?”

Ezran shook his head slightly. Apparently, he’d been staring into the middle distance. “Yep, I know what that’s for.” Arching his back, Ezran could swear he felt vertebrae pop from lying on the stones for the night. Around him, the Crownguard-in-training were rising from their bedrolls, rubbing their eyes and grumbling in what they thought were low whispers about strict captains and recalcitrant kings. “Onwards, to face the day. We shall go down fighting.”

“Ezran! King Ezran!”

Ezran looked up from the map at Callum, and his face fell. “I said three in the afternoon, Callum. I - why are you smiling?”

“Because,” Callum said, pushing past the three relatively stunned crab-merchants standing opposite the King, “I have had an idea. Well, actually, Rayla had the idea, and then I realised that it  _ was _ an idea and fleshed out the magic side of it, and then we kinda workshopped the diplomatic side toge - “

“Callum - I’m sorry, can we?” The crab-merchants nodded and retreated. “Thank you. Callum, what  _ is _ the idea?”

“A dragon who’s bound to a human  _ and _ an elf is just as neutral as a dragon who’s bound to neither.”

Ezran took a step back. “You mean - you could - of course you could, you’re High Mage Callum, you could put the Sun into an egg if you wanted.”

“Thank you.”

“But will the elves accept?” Ezran placed a finger in the air between himself and Callum. “That’s been the problem from the start. I’ll still have a twenty-year head start on whichever elf is chosen to be bound to us.”

Callum shrugged. “If we break the bond, Zym still has a twenty-year head start with humans, just in the other direction. It might not be ideal, but it’s just plausible enough that the elves can’t complain.”

Ezran felt the sudden and ridiculous urge to laugh, and if he’d learned anything, it was that giving in to sudden and ridiculous urges was sometimes worth his time. Callum grinned uncertainly as Ezran shook off the last of the chuckles, now sitting forward on his throne where he’d collapsed back in fits.

“Sorry, Callum, but… it’s... it’s just one of the simplest plans you’ve ever had. Now, if you will excuse me.”

Ezran ran to one specific part of the throne room and kicked open a section of wall, disappearing through it.

Callum looked after Ezran as he ran through the wall, and glanced at the High Cleric for some form of explanation. After twenty-two years of observing Ezran’s tics, High Cleric Opeli was one of the people most highly-attuned to the King in Katolis, and one of the sharpest too, despite her old age.

As usual, Opeli delivered with an explanation. Smiling laconically, the skin around her eyes crinkling, she asked, “Have you never noticed? The King always goes out onto balconies to speak to Zym. It’s traditional.” Callum nodded and began walking.

Callum got out onto the balcony - for indeed, the passage led to one that he had assumed was decorational - just as Ezran dropped his arms. Zym had been flying - Ez always substituted his arms for wings when he was melding.

“Well?” Callum leaned uncertainly forward, steadying himself on the carved stone railing.

“He said,  _ Thank you _ ,” Ezran replied, smiling and gazing out over Resmark.

* * *

Chapter 10

The low crystalline mist over the border town, rising off the Breach and settling in the mountains, sent miniscule shards into Major Anna’s lungs as she saluted the General, breathing heavily.

“The villagers say that they’ve not seen any sign of the activity since Monday, sir. We strongly suspect that, whatever it was, it’s gone now.”

General Amaya looked out over the misty forests below, from her vantage point in the upper town square. Even these tallest of mountains were only in the upper cloud layers - rain here wasn’t as common as fog, drenching the woods in water that never fell but simply… manifested.  _ Whatever it was… If it was what  _ I  _ suspect it was, it’s not gone. _

“Which is, sir?”

_ Dark magic, Major. _ The sign for “dark magic” was one of Anna’s favourites - a clenched left fist punched into a splayed right palm, then both hands becoming strained claws, simulating both the rigidity that a dark magician’s muscles took on as they plied their craft and an explosion.  _ Does everyone still have their wards activated? _

“Yes, sir. You said to keep them on even as we slept.”

_ Good. We’ve had problems in the past with soldiers deactivating them when they thought danger was past, even in the Standing Battalion, but in recent years, soldiers seem to trust them more. _

“Wards saved my life in the Battle of Karman’s Hill and in a half-dozen other fights, sir, and that’s true for a lot of veterans. So we yell at the younger ones if they don’t have them on.”

_ The louder the yell, the more the authority. _ Amaya smirked.  _ How I ever became a general is beyond me. Assemble the company - I’ve decided to conduct a sweep search through the forests. Whatever the lights are - man or beast - we’ll find them and potentially neutralise them. _

Anna nodded, leaving the General to puzzle over the forests.

Korvalis town had two town squares - the first, a smaller one, set before the Town Hall at the top of a promontory and offering a view of the forests, and the second larger one in the rough geographic centre of town, in which Breach Forces Company B was formed up and ready for orders.

Soldiers of all shapes and sizes stood in the square. Company B was mainly formed of Sunfire elves and humans, but significant numbers of Tidebound, Earthblood and Skywing elves were also present. There were even a few Moonshadow elves who had consented to fight as part of an army, rather than in their usual… clandestine nature.

All stood at ease in roughly the same armour - full plate with a helmet usually modified to suit horns and a crystal in the centre of the breastplate, glowing faintly. Two of the Skywing elves, who had just landed in the centre of the square, wore only thin, light plates that wouldn’t protect from crushing blows but added sufficiently little to their weight that they could still use their unarmoured wings. Akil-Resori-Farida and Marya-Selari-Deborah were Company B’s flight scouts, and they had always been stellar in their duties.

Amaya, Anna and Gren saluted the couple, who bowed in the traditional Skywing manner. Akil spoke first while Marya unrolled a map of the region.

“We have so far been unable to locate any tracks or similar from the air, sir, so we can rule out dragons or other large beasts.”

“It’s also our opinion,” Marya said as the map rolled out onto the ground, the five kneeling to study it more closely, “that the recent nature of the lights and sounds, as well as the fact that they began all at once, rules out migration of arboreal beasts. We believe that they are magical in nature.”

_ In that, we are in agreement. _

Anna thanked the Skywings, and they returned to their place in the formation, checking the energy levels of their wards. Rapid movement, such as flying, depleted them quickly for some reason.

Around the soldiers, townsfolk rushed about their business, bundled up against the cold weather. Two men hurried along the side of the square - a human and an elf together, judging by the shapes of the hoods. Even under the hood, the shapes of the elf’s horns were unfamiliar to Anna. Was that an Earthblood - 

Words reverberated around the square - “ _ htaerB. ehT. laetS. _ ” - and Anna collapsed to her knees with the rest of the company, trying desperately to pull air into lungs that just wouldn’t take it.

Viren smiled as he overcame the company’s wards. If they had been fully charged, he might have had problems with defeating them even with his preparations, but depleted as they were, a little push was all that it took to send them over the edge. 

A little push for him was more than most mages could muster - but that was the point. He wasn’t most mages. The dragonling’s foot disintegrated beneath his robes, and Viren shook the ash off his fingers.

Viren tapped his wrists and the serpent bracelets he had borrowed from his daughter twisted out, wrapping around the gasping, weakly struggling Amaya, and her similarly afflicted aide, Gren. As soon as the chains were secure, Viren let them have their breaths back - or two breaths, at least. Now he reflected upon it, they probably weren’t the ones specifically belonging to the General and Commander. 

Aaravos smiled and extended a hand, unravelling it into a portal. His current form was imperfect and constantly fell apart, but it was serviceable enough for short stints of movement, and Viren had required Star magic on this particular mission. The two exhausted, chained bodies floated through the portal, and Aaravos followed.

Just before he stepped through, Viren pondered whether he’d give the company its breaths back. He decided not to - it was always a good idea to deplete the enemy of their forces. Viren inhaled, consuming the breaths and using some of their power to restore his semblance of youth. So many uses for someone’s last breath.

Newly invigorated, Viren stepped through the portal, leaving the soldiers to spend their last seconds in a futile struggle to breathe again.


	2. No Higher Honour

Episode 2 - No Higher Honour

* * *

_The young Emperor is doing well, despite the circumstances surrounding his coronation. Unfortunately, the other court mages do not support him, and I have already heard of three plots foiled by the Crownguard against his life._

_I do not trust the Council. I believe they have my blood, though I know not what they wish to do with it. Mage Orvalis cut my hand with a steak-knife last night - he said it was an accident, but I do not believe him. I will be on guard for any magic they might conjure against me or the E_

  * High Mage Sekrasha of the Human Empire of Katral, 195 AS, last diary entry before killing young Emperor Justin and later committing suicide



* * *

Chapter 1

“The first rule of fighting against a lone opponent,” Captain Soren said, “is to make sure they cannot run away. This is harder than it sounds.”

The Captain paced the carpet in the centre of the deserted Great Hall, walking past the line of Crownguard trainees standing at attention with weapons as varied as their faces. The fires had not been lit in the Hall the previous night, according to Soren’s instruction, because today, Soren held the highest authority in Katolis Castle.

This was due to a combination of several factors.

King Ezran and High Mage Callum had set out the previous evening in order to arrive at the Breach on the next morning, to engage in the decision on which elf would be bound to Azymondias and thus irrevocably shape the politics of the dragons - what politics there was, beyond brute strength. Ezran had assured Soren that, with Callum and Azymondias there, not to mention his own talents, assassins would not be an issue, and that bringing an anti-assassination force to the conference, which was elves-only apart from the King and High Mage, would not be taken well by the elves. Soren had agreed with Ezran’s judgement on the issue, as he sometimes did, and had taken the opportunity to ask for permission for some _unique_ training exercises to be undertaken while Ezran was out of the castle. 

Much to Ezran’s future chagrin, he had not bothered to look at the notes Soren had on these exercises before approving the request, and telling the staff of the castle to assist in whatever Soren was attempting.

There was a melon on the throne. With a pike through it. And a potato sack stuck to the axe part.

“A fight is always about making sure you are safe.” The last few words were echoed by the trainees. “And the best way to do that is to run away. When you are fighting a lone opponent, you have a major advantage in that you can encircle them, give them no options, make sure they cannot run away, and then you can dispose of them at your leisure, because you can run away and they cannot.

Remember that if you are surrounding an opponent with pointy objects pointed _inwards_ , the ruler of Katolis is just as safe as if you were surrounding _them_ with pointy objects pointed _outwards_. Who is less safe in the first situation?”

“The threat!” issued from twenty-five throats in an impressive range of octaves. Taken together, the Crownguard might be an impressive choir, if nothing else.

“And what is the motto of the Crownguard?”

“Destroy the threat, protect the Crown!” The trainees actually managed a certain sort of discordant harmony as they repeated the motto in the cadence Soren had drilled into their heads.

“Good.

Now, I said that the advantage of fighting a lone opponent is that you can encircle them and leave them nowhere to run. One of the most formidable opponents I have had the displeasure of fighting - and hopefully will never do so again - was so formidable precisely because they were able to run from an encircled position. You will be facing this threat in today’s training exercise.” Soren gestured dramatically to the stylised melon he had decided to call the Potato King.

Avrain raised the hand not gripping his wooden practice axe. “A… a melon on a stick, sir?”

“No,” Soren said, “that is the Potato King on his Staff of Virtue. This is the rightful ruler who you will be protecting in today’s exercise. The _threat_ you will be facing,” he said, as Rayla dropped from the rafters to land behind him, “is _that_.”

Eight of the more quick-thinking trainees moved to encircle Rayla, but she was too fast for their pitiful attempts at an encirclement and she easily slipped between two of them, running for the Potato King. A figure stepped in front of her, kneeling with shield over head, and Rayla, acting on instinct, jumped onto it for a shield leap.

This was a bad idea.

Vara rolled out of the way as soon as Rayla’s foot made contact with the shield, sending her sprawling. She looked up into a pike-head roughly covered in wood (there were no practice substitutes for her daughter’s weapon, although Rayla herself had managed to whittle rough analogues of her slipswords) as the Crownguard moved again to encircle her.

Rayla scowled. It was time to show these whippersnappers exactly what Soren had meant when he said ‘run from an encircled position’. The Moonshadow elf grunted, flipped into a standing position while dodging several attacks (including a particularly vicious and unsporting one from Tiadrin that Rayla was inordinately proud of), and sprang back up into the rafters.

The picks helped Rayla in swinging around, but not nearly as much as they would have done if they were actually sharp. Rayla had to change her entire swing style to suit her practice weapons, and was convinced she was twice as slow - which was still twice as fast as the Crownguard trainees. Burdened as they were by their human armour - Rayla had worn metal on occasion and it hadn’t been _that_ bad, but it was always fun to exaggerate - the Crownguard were ridiculously slow, having to cautiously pick their way around tables and chairs while Rayla had the relative freedom of the beams holding the roof up.

Soren had evidently decided to sit this one out, retreating to a corner of the room, sitting and making notes on one of the interminable number of clipboards he seemed to be able to procure out of thin air. Rayla swung over to him as some of the trainees tried to climb a pole to get to her.

“You liking my performance?” Rayla said, leaning on the back of the chair and peering over Soren’s shoulder. Surprisingly, the things he was writing were mostly positive - Rayla took that as a sign of her obvious prowess.

“This is my favourite type of training,” Soren said, sipping a cup of cold semi-beige morning potion probably procured from Callum’s stocks. “Letting someone else train them. By the way, they appear to be getting closer, and you have a job to do.”

“Indeed,” Rayla replied, swinging up into the rafters again as three Crownguard almost got her. Soren remarked in a parting manner, “Embarrass your daughter for me!”

Rayla was annoyed that Soren thought he had to ask.

* * *

Chapter 2

Rayla decided that enough was enough, and that she was going to make a right mess of the trainees before she got to the Potato King - which she would slaughter with great pomp. But not circumstance. A Moonshadow Elf never left things to chance.

She dropped from the rafters into the midst of a group of the surprised trainees, which puzzled her, because they’d been following her movement like they’d been expecting her to come down.

Perhaps they’d been expecting her to hand over her weapons and come quietly too.

The first few strikes would have been fatal if Rayla had had her real slipswords. As it was, the three affected Crownguard trainees groaned and collapsed on the floor. Rayla gave a small grunt of satisfaction - at least Soren had taught his charges how to be honest.

They were good actors, too, but Soren probably hadn’t taught them that. One was whimpering. Oh, no, wait, that was an actual dislocated shoulder. Rayla resolved to be _far_ more gentle with her next strikes, and to apologise to Ruk afterwards.

The Crownguard fanned out and attempted to encircle Rayla again, but this time, she wasn’t going with the pacifist route, and she had always held that the best way to run from people was through other people. She chose the people closest to the Potato King as the people she was going to run through.

Vara went down to two quick slashes at the ankles (shields aren’t everything, Vara) and Avrain wasn’t fast enough with his axe and got stabbed in the stomach and chest. Tiadrin wasn’t even worth bothering about, with her axe and shield in polearm form and therefore useless at this distance - a distance she didn’t even get to use for long, as Rayla continued running out of her reach. This left Rayla with a clear line to the Potato King, which she took. 

The Crownguard realised their mistake, and flowed after Rayla in a tidal wave of force, at times outpacing the elf over ground, at other times falling behind, making strikes against her (which she dodged) and, on one memorable occasion, attempting to tackle her (which she dodged). Dive-rolling over an upturned table, Rayla raised her right sword in front of her to land a killing blow - 

and stopped.

Tiadrin’s axe was a centimetre from Rayla’s neck, and Rayla’s sword was a similar distance from Tiadrin’s eye.

And just like that, in a frozen tableau between an elf about to stab forward and a half-elf who only got there just in time to kill them and take the blow meant for the Potato King, the session was over.

Soren was handing out the pieces of paper he had meticulously crafted over the session, with each Crownguard member receiving one adopting a facial expression ranging from relief to resentment. As he handed out the pieces of paper, he gave a sentence of advice to each trainee.

“Vara, remember to use your spear, not just your shield.” Vara nodded and began going through the basic forms of her spear again.

“Friedrich, your stances are brilliant, but you need to use each one when it’s required.” Friedrich sighed and looked down at his feet.

“Ruk, breathe slowly and extend your right shoulder. That’s right. Now…” Ruk experienced a few moments of brief but terrible discomfort before the bone popped back into place.

“Tiadrin, brilliant work with the axe at the end, but you need to review your options before you go into a fight.” Tiadrin looked sharply up at her Captain.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just mean that if you had, for example, gone for Rayla’s hand with your axe rather than her neck, you might have been able to - “

“I don’t understand the problem,” Tiadrin said with a scowl. “The threat’s destroyed. The Crown’s protected. That’s all that matters.”

“Tiadrin, _you_ matter. Everyone matters. Don’t you understand - “

“I understand perfectly!” Tiadrin angrily switched her axe and shield back to polearm form and stalked out of the room with the other trainees, butt end of the halberd clacking on the stone.

Soren sighed, turned, then stepped backwards due to the force of the Rayla behind him.

“Soren,” Rayla began, pointing a finger at his breastplate, gem shining in the centre, “it’s not your place to tell Tiadrin how to prioritise her concerns.”

Soren began to understand, and felt a mounting anger. “So this is a Moonshadow thing. This is about honour, about pride. You know how I feel about your traditions, Rayla, and while I respect them in you, I won’t train any of my Crownguard to throw their lives away for honour.”

“That’s not the Moonshadow way!” The two had escalated to whisper-shouting, not wishing to alert any of the Crownguard to their argument but both sufficiently incensed. “The day I learned my parents died fighting Viren rather than running was one of the best days of my life! Death with the highest honour is preferable to life with the lowest cowardice!”

“That’s how you think!” Soren gestured angrily. “Not how I want _my_ Crownguard to think! I want my Crownguard to look down every possible path of action before condoning the death of an innocent, and that includes them! I want my trainees to live to fight another day, to live to guard the Crown another day!”

Rayla’s voice dropped - not in volume, but in intensity. “And if you could have given your life to save your ruler’s, and you didn’t because you _looked down another possible path of action_ , and now they’re dead, you haven’t just failed - you’ve been a coward. You _are_ a coward. That’s how Moonshadow elves see it, that’s how I see it, and contrary to your beliefs, that’s how Tiadrin sees it. And you’re only going to hurt her by trying to burn it out of her.”

Rayla strode out in a manner oddly reminiscent of her daughter, leaving Soren to try and piece together the implications of what she’d just said.

_It had been so quick._

_Soren had been fighting the leader. Soren had been winning! With the aid of Markos, he had beaten the elf almost to a wall. Markos was distracting him - only for a split-second, but that would be enough. His sword was ready to strike forward and -_

_no dammit_

_Another elf came from the side, and Soren blocked the strike, moving to face that one. Stabbing the leader would have meant certain death. That elf fought bravely, if briefly, and Soren soon turned back to face the leader._

_That had been his mistake._

_The leader had had some sort of moon magic - nothing big, but something flashy. The burst of light and shockwave of sound had incapacitated the Crownguard and the King. Soren watched helplessly through barely registering eyes and ringing ears as the leader limped to the weakly moving figure of King Harrow_

_and shot him three times_

_once in the head, once in the neck, once in the heart_

* * *

Chapter 3

The river of lava was still in place - Zubeia had decided that a controllable border was better than both a free one and a completely closed one - but over the scar that High Mage Viren had left on his march into what had once been the entirety of Xadia rose a palace - functional and beautiful, inspired by both ancient Katolian and Skywing architecture, rising in three graceful tiers flanked by curving tiles and leading to a flat, paved roof with spaces for even the largest dragons.

This was the Xadian Breach Customs House, and it was on the roof that delegations from all corners of the continent gathered to debate on which of the elves should be granted the honour of being bound to Azymondias.

A riot of colour greeted King Ezran’s eyes as he stepped out onto the roof. The delegations each numbered around twenty, and comprised some of the highest-ranking officials known to humans and elves. The Skywings - powerful mages that didn’t so much rule Skywing society as keep a general eye on it - had even brought some children. Probably family members of the officials, Ezran thought, given their strong family units.

 _It might be good to choose a Skywing._ Ezran flashed through Zym’s vision centres, giving him a dragon’s-eye view of the roof for a split-second. Zym lay on a massive stone platform, one of the nine set at various points around the roof, so it wasn’t a birds-eye view, but it still offered significant amounts of scale and power - even though Zym was Phoe-Phoe size at best. Zym continued, turning his head to look directly at Ezran. _They don’t have much idea of authority, and they serve the Sky dragons directly. The more I think about the idea, the more I like it._

Ezran smiled as he walked towards the plinth, glancing back at the centre platform (larger and higher-up than the eight others) on which Zubeia lay. The Dragon Queen, as she had repeatedly stated, was only there to observe. This was Azymondias’ choice, and his challenge. _Well, the elves at least allowed you your choice of candidate - although they seem to be intent on shoving one of their choosing towards you._

 _I can’t choose from every elf in Xadia, you know._ Zym snorted as Ezran neared. _It’s good that they’re thinning out the pack for us_.

_I suppose so._

Ezran ascended the steps carved into the side of the platform, to stand underneath Zym’s folded wing, and a sharp _crack_ sounded as Zym slammed his tail into the platform’s surface, silencing the throng.

Zym eyed the delegations, now watching him with trepidation, and projected his thoughts to all assembled.

A dragon could not speak the common tongue until they were seventy-five, at the very least - but Zym’s lengthened bond to King Ezran allowed him to somewhat circumvent the rules. He couldn’t issue actual sound, but when he could think words into peoples’ heads, the problem somewhat disappeared.

_You have deliberated among your own delegations for an hour now – your minds should be made up. Anyone who is not in agreement with their own delegation, speak now or forever hold your peace._

There was dead silence from the delegations.

 _Peace held, then_ , Zym said to Ezran specifically, before the now diminutive human stepped forward to address the crowd.

“The burden of choosing an Empath for the future Dragon King is a heavy one, and it is not easy to choose one elf who can speak for all elf-kind. I know that, if our roles were reversed, us humans would be in a similar position. However, it has been agreed that greater cooperation between our races is what has always been, and will always be, required – not distancing ourselves from each other. I call each of the elven delegations to come forward and speak on who they believe should be the first Empath.”

Ezran’s voice boomed forth across the roof. Thankfully, the day was clear and the mild wind blowing across the roof only served to help his words along. Zym frowned as a thought came to his mind. _We really should have told someone specific to go first._ Ezran shrugged.

Thankfully, Queen Janai of the Sunfire delegation stepped forth first. Zym felt a rough humour enter his mind, and he snorted softly. _The Sunfires won’t pass up a chance to be something important._

 _Hush, child,_ Ezran replied. _They’re good allies, and honourable people._

_Just a little stuck-up, though._

Ez rolled his eyes - Zym could feel the stark difference between Ezran’s nimble eyes and his giant but slow ones - and conceded. _They are slightly pretentious._

Janai spoke - although the wind helped Ezran’s speech, it somewhat hindered her own, so she had to speak up to be heard.

“We the Sunfire elves recognise the deep and pressing need to appoint an elvish representative to bond with the Dragon Prince. We also note that, as the longest-lived elvish race, Sunfire elves are the most suited to this task.”

Ezran gritted his teeth, and Zym’s muscles tensed. Neither liked to be reminded of the differences in their life expectancy.

Queen Janai continued. “However, we regret to inform those assembled here that we must, at this time, focus on the purification of the Sun Forge and the restoration of Lux Aurea to its former glory. The Sunfire Elves will facilitate the choice of a candidate for the bond, but we will not be placing any candidate forward.” Zym tilted his head slightly and Ezran raised an eyebrow. Janai came through with an explanation, discreetly signing to the pair as she made her way back to her position at the head of the Sunfire Delegation. _We couldn’t decide on a delegate._

The Moonshadow elves stood up next, similarly declining the chance to put forth a delegate, and the deliberations began in earnest.

* * *

Chapter 4

The delegations had talked for hours now, and were no closer to a decision.

The Sunfire and Moonshadow delegations had been the only ones not to select a candidate, although the Tidebound candidate had dropped out early when it became apparent that nobody was going to support him. Now, Tidebound and Moonshadow elves supported the Earthblood candidate, whereas the Sunfire and Skywing elves had joined in a smaller, but potentially more powerful coalition. 

The candidates themselves, Ezran and Zym were mildly surprised to note, were actually both good choices for the position. The Earthblood candidate was Avari, a middle-aged woman who spoke little but managed to make her words count when she did. Sombre even in the vibrant clothes that Earthblood elves tended to wear, the elf mostly steered the conversation through piercing stares that alternated between approving and mildly disgusted.

The lion’s share of the second type went to the Skywing candidate, who was in many ways Avari’s opposite. Ezran recalled that Callum had never grasped the Earth arcanum, saying that it wasn’t the antithesis of Sky, but it was sufficiently conflicting to make the leaps in logic difficult for him. Ytran-Resori-Virs was a young, idealistic mage - he had been born without wings, and so his family name defaulted to his father rather than his mother, but he evidently had a good grasp of the Sky arcanum. Callum had used a gust of wind to whisper to Ezran that, although his technical knowledge was inferior, Ytran’s innate understanding of Sky was possibly better than Callum’s own.

Ezran’s opinion differed slightly to Zym’s. It was a common enough occurrence, but this was the longest that one of these differences had persisted for a while. Ezran thought that Avari’s worldliness would be good for the both of them, as he found both of them tended to be slightly naive, but Zym preferred Ytran’s affinity for Sky. However, both of them agreed that the best candidate was likely to be neither of the two, so while the delegations debated, the King and the Dragon watched the people on the fringes, the people arguing at the forefront, the people considering and offering insight. 

Twice, the two considered Queen Janai, but dismissed the idea both times because Janai was Queen of the Sunfire Elves and because she was their friend. The elves evidently agreed with them that the elf who took up the mantle would have to be strange to the two _and_ not too important - both criteria that Queen Janai did not fulfil.

_Are you sure?_

Ezran’s tone was incredulous, but Zym felt himself becoming more and more sure. He had seen someone - someone who until this point had not put forth a concrete reason for their ability to lead, to fight, to be diplomatic when and where they required - but the choice made sense to him, in a way he knew he’d find a reason for soon.

Azymondias leaped off the platform, over Ez, and landed among the elvish delegations. All eyes turned to him, and the roof died into pause. Not silent enough for silence - the energy charging the air had a sound all of its own - and not loud enough for quiet. It was the sound of the time before the wave hit, expectation blotting out all other sound.

Zym paced towards the Skywing delegation, and placed his foot before a shocked, winged, twelve-year-old girl.

Ezran began to understand why Zym had chosen the girl. It was not as quick as speech - Zym could have probably convinced him faster by explaining his points - but the slow trickle of concepts and ideas that always existed between the two, almost below their consciousness, gave him a more complete understanding of Zym’s choice than any words could.

What they needed was someone who they could shape. A cynical stateswoman, an idealistic diplomat, a stern Queen - all had one common problem, and that was that they were already what they were. They could never change to suit other people, they could never undergo the shifts in personality and demeanour that both Ezran and Zym had gone through to become the people they were today, completely attuned to each other. Only a child could have even a chance of doing that.

As they thought together, Ezran and Zym realised that they also had a challenge ahead of them - were they still capable of shifting themselves? Would they be able to change to suit the little Skywing girl that stood before them? And would the girl even accept? That was crucial.

The second ended, and Azymondias spoke to the entire congregation.

Azymondias’ voice reverberated through Callum’s mind, reminiscent of caverns and bells.

_When I first forged my Empath bond to King Ezran, I was still in the egg. Ezran completed a completely selfless act entirely for me, and I bound myself to him – myself less than born, and he at the age of 10._

_Because of this, I have come to believe that it is best to form this bond – not lightly destroyed – as children, so that we grow learning the full majesty of it. It is because of this that I choose you._ These last words were spoken individually, as Azymondias took his eyes to level with the girl’s.

 _Do you accept my offer, child? Know that I would never seek that anyone should force it on you,_ Zym said slightly louder than usual, _and I know what it is like to be small._

Zym laid his head on the stone in front of the child and watched her intently. Callum could have taken the shock of the room and twisted it into a rope, if he hadn’t been somewhat enthusiastically participating in it.

The girl nodded.

Uproar immediately followed. The Tidebound and Earthblood elves were angrily protesting, whereas the Sunfire and Skywing elves were alternating between defending the Dragon Prince’s decision and the girl herself.

“Do remember,” Ezran shouted from his position on top of what had once been Azymondias’ platform, “that I and Azymondias are pledging, without remorse, to meld our minds irretrievably and irrevocably with another. I respect the Dragon Prince’s decision, and so should you.” The steel in the King’s words almost scared the delegates as much as real weapons, Callum noted sardonically.

 _Are_ you _sure?_ Zym spoke to the girl, but let his thoughts be known to everyone.

The girl thought for a moment. “I can’t be really sure of anything. But this is the surest I’ve been in a long time about something. If there is a duty that must be taken, and you have given me that duty… your trust is the highest honour I could ever receive.” She smiled, hands folded behind her back with her wings, looking down at the dragon head on the ground.

Callum stepped forth, received wordless approval from Ez and Azymondias, and slashed a rune in the air. He felt that this should be suitably magnificent, so instead of muttering the enchantment, he shouted it.

“ _Facio obligatum!_ ”

A beam of light shot between Artaxa’s head and that of the Dragon Prince, and suddenly, she _knew_ both him and the King standing on the platform, closely and deeply.

And she knew that both of them were proud of her.

* * *

Chapter 5

Ezran and Zym had thought they had been prepared to deal with another person. They were not. And they were especially unprepared for how _enthusiastic_ said person would be about the whole thing.

Zym tried his hardest not to move, afraid of breaking something or someone. Ezran stepped back from the edge of the platform and sat down, dealing with the young Artaxa.

That was her name.

Twelve years old (she had introduced herself in their minds in the way most children did, rattling off her age as if it were part of her name), Artaxa had learned to fly, which gave her an immediate affinity for Zym even as her mostly human limb placement made her a match for Ezran. It had been a good decision to choose someone who actually had wings - although, Ezran thought with a hint of disgust as Zym and Artaxa launched into an enthusiastic discussion on the tricky manoeuvres required to relieve oneself midair, perhaps one could have too much of a good decision.

After what seemed like a thousand years, but was probably only a minute, the initial flood of information died down, and the three began to converse normally. Zym turned and paced back to the platform as the delegations began to disperse, only a couple of Skywings remaining with the girl as she followed the great dragon. Ezran still felt a little bit too shocked to attempt walking properly.

_Who are these?_

Artaxa turned, realised and ran to the two elves, with one pulling her into a spinning bear-hug. Zym and Ezran felt the concept of “parents” burst from the young elf - majorly modified to suit _Artaxa’s_ parents in particular, of course, but still recognisable at its core. Zym circled like a cat and bowed to the two. _Greetings, Gurian-Resori-Aharon, Sofia-Selari-Kamilah. Your daughter has taken on great duty._

“We hope she is ready to fulfil it, Great Dragon.” Gurian lowered his daughter, solemnity battling a host of other emotions in his bearing and expression. Through Zym’s eyes, Ezran saw the protective manner in which the man held his daughter, who was for her part almost vibrating with excitement and wonder at the minds she was now in full contact with.

Ezran stood up and made his way towards the stairs, as Zym spoke further to Artaxa’s parents. He could feel Artaxa’s confusion as she tried to process the way in which Ez and Zym saw her parents, so different to her own ideas. _You’re going to have to get used to that, Artaxa-Selari-Sofia,_ Ezran thought as he descended. _It happened far too often even when it was just the two of us._

Callum saw Queen Janai beckon him as the delegations dispersed, moving off towards Zubeia’s platform with a few members of her entourage. A few runes saw the winds carry him to her position, standing in the shadow of the great plinth, and Zubeia watched both with an air of interest.

Callum touched down in front of the Queen, who nodded, placing her hands behind her back and arching it. The formality of the position was immediately noticeable to the Mage, and he adopted a similar position. Technically, this form of mirroring was only meant to be for those of higher rank than oneself, but one could use it as a form of respect, as Callum was now.

“Greetings, High Mage,” the Queen began, speaking in a voice soft but not overtly so - not caring to whisper or shout. “I was… wondering if Katolis had heard from May-uh, General Amaya in the last two weeks.”

Callum thought for a second. “The last contact we had with her was a week ago, when she crossed the Breach. She should have arrived in Lux Aurea three days ago, at the latest.”

“Well, she hasn’t.” 

Callum smiled softly. “I’d advise you not to worry about our General, Queen Janai. She’s done this sort of thing in the past, and she’ll do it again. She’ll probably turn up bruised and battered at the Customs House a week from now with the head of a brigand captain or a wyvern, demanding ale.”

“Wyverns don’t exist.”

“I wouldn’t put it past her.” Janai grinned at the retort, relaxing slightly. “If you want your fears assuaged, Queen Janai,” Callum continued, bringing his hands out from behind his back, “the Breach Forces are stationed here. We can easily ask them about the General.”

Queen Janai nodded, and called over one of the many scribes that were walking across the roof. As well as being a meeting place that elves, humans and dragons could all access, the roof of the Customs House appeared to be a major thoroughfare.

“My Queen!” The scribe was a rather flustered, young Sunfire Elf, struggling to keep her papers in a single pile as she attempted to curtsey. “How may I assist you, Your Radiance?”

Janai looked the scribe directly in the eye, asking several pertinent questions about Amaya and her whereabouts. The answers were a little bit jumbled and stuttery, but overall they painted a good picture of the events of last week.

General Amaya had rode into the Breach with the retinue she’d had when she had left Resmark. After being notified of several strange occurrences around the mountain town of Korvalis, she had chosen to personally lead Company B to investigate. It had taken a day for the company to mobilise, then a four-day march to the town - the winter snows still hampered movement in the mountains, even with the coming of spring. Company B had sent their last messenger crow upon arrival, so they hadn’t been heard from in two days - but that was the estimated time a runner would take, so they were expecting news soon.

“What about fliers?” Callum interjected. Those were always on his mind, and for good reason - flight was a quick and easy solution to many tactical problems, including winter snows.

The scribe shrugged. “The crow mentioned that Company B’s two fliers were out on a scouting mission. They seem to be an important part of the General’s strategy.”

Janai nodded to the scribe with a quick “Thank you for your service,” and the scribe once again attempted to curtsey with her hands full and left.

A snort from above notified the two to the Dragon Queen’s entrance into the conversation. The archdragon snaked her long neck, now sporting three long scars from the Supremacy that had crowned her in her own right, down above the human and elf, and Zubeia spoke.

“If you wish, I can fly you to… Korvalis, did she say?” Zubeia’s lips curled into what approximated a smile for a dragon. “The dragons don’t really guard the border nowadays - that’s done by the Breach Forces - so we have significantly more free time in which we can, for example, help the Breach Forces.”

Janai let out a small “heh” before graciously declining. “I’m sure that the High Mage is correct, Your Majesty. We’ll receive a runner soon - if not, Amaya will return later.”

Zubeia’s head snapped slightly around, then pivoted, rising on her long and gracile neck, around to face the Xadian side of the Customs House.

“Your runner appears to be here.”

* * *

Chapter 6

Viren shook a bottle and coated the weapons with its contents, and as he worked, he admired the Elven craftsmanship.

He had realised, later, that he could have used some of the company’s instruments of war. Aaravos had disapproved, of course, but Aaravos was not his father, and he had snuck back into the town - Korvalis, he vaguely remembered - to loot the bodies. Now, four of them lay on the ground before him, softly shining in the torchlight.

The Skywings’ weapons were the most alien, he decided. Only one could be roughly described as a war-pick, but it seemed that the dual heads of the pick could detach from the rest - in fact, were _made_ to detach. The other looked somewhat like a massive lady’s fan with blades instead of vanes, and he couldn’t even divulge its purpose. 

The other two were a regular Sunfire sword and an Earthblood war-axe. The cruel obsidian of the axe looked almost beautiful as much as it was savage and primal, and Viren traced a finger along it, enjoying the smooth contouring of the volcanic glass and the subtle buzz of the enchantments preventing it from immediately shattering.

Someone was glaring at him. It was the General.

Unfortunately, they needed General Amaya to be able to sign to glean information from her - which was one good reason to put her in charge of the army, as potential captors would be separated from any information they wanted by a language barrier as well as, well, General Amaya. She had resisted all efforts at persuasion, even the ones that required _special_ poisons.

Amaya wasn’t above signing her mind, though, which was what she did now. Commander Gren had been more securely bound behind her.

“I seem to have the perverse pleasure of knowing it before anyone else - you _are_ a monster.”

Viren smiled. “You’re right now, General, but you were wrong when you first thought so. I was a novice then, a mere rat in the world. I even entertained foolish notions of being altruistic and selfless. I was no monster.

But what you are looking at now _is_ a monster, General. Of that you can be certain.” Switching tack for the hell of it, Viren went back to stroking the weapons. “Were they your friends, these elves? I seem to recall you _married_ one. Where’s your old fire, your fight? I’d almost think your righteous anger has been… corrupted.”

Gren adopted the same glare Amaya was currently sharing. “You’re wrong about the elves, as I once was. At least I can admit my mistakes.”

Viren chuckled. “You see, Aaravos, this is why I haven’t gagged the boy. They’re amusing when they’re allowed to talk.” Amaya made several gestures which Gren happily translated.

Aaravos looked up from his position in the middle of what had once been his cocoon and directed an annoyed gaze at Viren. The man was a good ally - not as good as Ziard had once been, but the best quality the Startouch elf could have hoped for in this day and age - but he had this form of perpetual _enthusiasm_ which grated on the nerves. Ziard hadn’t enjoyed his work for its own sake - he had enjoyed it because he was helping his people, because he was serving the greater good.

But Viren was still a good ally, Aaravos reminded himself, as was his daughter - and he wasn’t fool enough to pass up one of the most powerful dark mages he’d seen just because they _liked_ dark magic.

“They’re not the most creative of souls, Viren,” the archmage replied, drawing power from the morass of flesh and… other matter that served as the stuff of his rejuvenation. In contact with this slimy matter, Aaravos’ body strengthened, re-knitted, became stronger - not by much, but now he could measure his time spent outside of it in hours rather than minutes. “In only half a day, I have heard thirty-seven references to ‘slime’ or its variants, twenty-four to ‘rot’, sixty-two to ‘blasphemy’, ‘sacrilege’ or just ‘dark magic’ uttered like a swear word, and little else.” Aaravos took a deep, crackling breath. “Perhaps the problem with taking information from them is that they don’t have the vocabulary to give it.”

Amaya countered with a series of words that Aaravos was sure didn’t exist. Feeling a rising tide of boredom and deep contempt, the elf stretched out a hand, made a few lazy runes, and froze the two in time. Well, not _froze_ , precisely, but when it would take Amaya a week to raise a finger, it wasn’t all that different.

Viren had turned slightly at the crackle. “Are you relapsing, Aaravos?” The elf shook his head - complications like this were normal, and would be until he could find a way to get his stasis-locked true body out of that damned mirror. This was an improvement measured in light-years over his imprisonment, but it was still galaxies away from what he had once been.

Aaravos felt it was time to get to a point he had been formulating for some time now. This brain _was_ inferior.

“This is heavy-handed, Viren. Couldn’t you find a more… subtle way to influence the boy?”

“Aaravos, if I’ve only been taught one thing, it’s this - heavy-handed methods _work_. If I don’t need to be subtle, why bother?” Viren calmed himself, then spoke the words.

“ _em ot meht gnirb dna, serusaert ym dniF!”_

And four elves of dark twilight manifested themselves in front of him, nodded silently, and leapt out of the caverns under the Valrion Wastes to their task.

Aaravos smiled - Viren was most probably right. The mage knew humans better than he did. And, to be fair, elves as well. Maybe he _was_ too subtle.

* * *

Chapter 7

Rayla met a servant in the hallway. Their entire demeanour could be best described as fatalistic - shoulders slumped, head bowed and face set halfway between the dread of being assigned to an unpleasant task and the boredom of being assigned to one you’ve been given many times before.

At a “don’t worry, I’ll find Oskar,” the face shifted unconsciously to relief, and Rayla’s took on the characteristics of the former, with perhaps a little bit more determination and righteous fury. That was what she liked to think.

As she walked through the many corridors of the castle, she resolved to get one of those Moon magic dual trackers that Callum had made for Amaya and Janai and somehow plant it on Oskar without him noticing. She laughed out loud at the intrusive notion of getting Callum to weld it to his skull, her chuckle disappearing down the long, deserted corridors.

No. According to Callum, that had hurt like Forzana’s scales falling on his head. Besides, she thought as she rounded a corner and passed a small plaque detailing what constituted a “rock” as opposed to a “stone”, she knew where he was. It was the matter of catching him that was difficult.

Quickly tapping the combination that had become ingrained into her muscle memory, Rayla hummed a tune to herself, calmly contemplating reality for the short amount of time it would take to open the stairwell.

This was why she was surprised when the stairwell ground down halfway through.

Rayla focused instantly, flipping down the stairwell with hands outstretched to catch anyone standing at the lever. The small, horned figure gripping the small statue with white-tight fingers was too petrified to escape her grasp, although he did scream and attempt to bite Rayla’s fingers off before he realised it was her. The animal terror that seemed to have taken the young half-elf by force refocused and became sapient terror - still terrible and destructive in its majesty, but at least able to plan and tell friend from foe.

“Mummy, look!”

Rayla had already registered her son’s fright, and therefore was already looking. Her breath caught in her throat and she placed Oskar behind her as she realised what she was looking at.

Voidelves.

They had been a common enough occurrence in the Dark Insurgency - several had been sent to kill Callum, and Rayla herself had fought three - but those three had been all alone.

Now, four were staring her down, the stolen weapons of fallen elves stained with Moonshadow blood glinting in their grasp.

And one had something else. The Voidelf who was now lazily swinging the Sunfire sword held a pouch in the other hand. A pouch that Rayla could not afford to lose.

In that pouch were _records_.

Records of Moonshadow elves, slain by dark mages, their sleeping images locked in the coins for all eternity. The last memories she had of her parents, and of Runaan. Images she would not lose, for the sake of their sacrifices.

Rayla drew her swords.

If she was going to fight four Voidelves at once, so be it.

For the people who’d raised her, she could give no higher honour.

Merzendrul hissed at Rothayla to cease her distraction. Killing the boy might be an impediment to the Primals, yes, but it was not their mission, and their mission was of paramount importance.

Nobody summoned a Voidelf if their mission was not.

Rothayla was meant to be the leader of the mission, Merzendrul thought in Annoyance - his carefully crafted mental state emanating from his form to the others in the group - but he’d found himself having to actively shepherd her around. At times, it even seemed like his daughter was actively trying to ruin the mission.

Now, a true elf stood before them, drawing her swords, and Merzendrul realised that Rothayla’s indiscretion might have cost them the mission. He had fought this elf twice before, before being banished back to Shadow’s Artifice, and the second time, he had been defeated substantially quicker. 

This elf had had fifteen years of training since then, and from the steel in her eyes, Merzendrul guessed she liked her chances.

Rage flooded from Merzendrul, stimulating Geryzkar, Herik and Rothayla into action. Rothayla seemed to, at last, get the sentiment, running for the corridor with the pouch in her talons.

But not for long.

The elf was twice as fast as Merzendrul remembered. Easily outpacing the Voidelves, she dropped in front of Rothayla, and Merzendrul felt Pain erupting from the young Denizen - holding her slipsword in front of her, the elf had dropped just so that Rothayla’s shadowy arm had been cut off at the wrist, dropping the pouch. Rothayla flipped backwards and snarled as the arm regenerated itself.

The Voidelves hefted their weapons and charged as one at the elf. Dodging Geryzkar’s wingswords, she brought hers down and inwards onto Herik’s two shoulder-blades, slicing a jagged V into his torso and piercing his heart. With a shriek of Pain, Herik’s true form fled back to Shadow’s Artifice.

A harsh reminder of how easy it was to kill a Voidelf.

Merzendrul focused on the objective - he still thought of himself as a formidable opponent to the elf, despite her obvious newfound skill. Using the thrill of Herik’s death as a distraction, he dove between the elf’s legs and scooped up the pouch, rolling out the door and making a run for it.

He instructed Rothayla and Geryzkar to hold the elf off. Geryzkar would enjoy the chance to fight a skilled opponent, despite the probable outcome, and Rothayla - 

Rothayla deserved some pain.

* * *

Chapter 8

Rothayla swung her Sunfire sword experimentally and smiled. For her, the plan was going swimmingly. Geryzkar stood beside her in the doorway, blocking the elf’s exit. Rothayla detected Annoyance at her actions - not Rage, like Herik or her father, merely Annoyance - overlaid with sheer, savage Glee and Bloodlust. The emotions were almost overpowering, and Rothayla bathed in them.

She’d need them to appear convincing for the coming battle.

The elf advanced towards them, flipping onto the ceiling and attempting to leap over them. Geryzkar countered by jumping backwards down the hallway, wingswords outstretched to slice the elf into five - that is, if the elf were there. A clever hook on the ceiling caused Geryzkar to misjudge the elf’s motion, and she dropped almost vertically to the corridor’s floor, in between the two Voidelves.

Advancing, the elf began to give Geryzkar a run for his money. The wings of Geryzkar’s current form were useless in this small corridor, as, to an extent, were the wingswords, which needed air to move in to be effective. The elf used this to her full advantage, forcing Geryzkar to retreat when he couldn’t properly move his swords to block an attack.

Rothayla began to try to look for gaps in the elf’s defences, but even facing Geryzkar, the elf was a match for her. She never attempted attack, only defence, parrying Rothayla’s blows as she advanced upon Geryzkar, still a beacon of Glee despite the fact that he was obviously outmatched.

And then she attacked.

Rothayla was surprised, which was the aim. The elf had simply stepped back, ducked under the blow Rothayla had almost drunkenly swung at her, and stabbed her blade up into the Voidelf’s heart. Rothayla briefly became the epicentre of the wave of Pain that marked the death of a Voidelf, and then her form self-destructed, leaving her only a spirit in semi-darkness. In the veil between worlds.

Rothayla watched as the elf advanced upon Geryzkar with both swords this time, easily beating back his defences, jumping over him and stabbing him with a backwards grip as she ran off down the hallway after Merzendrul. Geryzkar wasn’t one to stay and watch a battle he felt was already decided - he flitted past Rothayla back to Shadow’s Artifice.

The elf caught up to Rothayla’s father on the battlements.

Rayla narrowed her eyes and breathed heavily as she tightened her grip on her slipswords. The last Voidelf appeared to accept that fighting her was the only way it would be able to win and pointed its axe at her, laying the pouch on the ground behind it.

Rayla smiled. Jumping up and flipping, she brought both blades down towards the Voidelf’s head - which wasn’t there anymore. Rayla cursed and rolled as the creature stepped out of the way with inhuman speed, bringing its axe down on Rayla’s back.

The blow would have been considerably more spine-severing if Rayla hadn’t known how to make woven Moonshadow armour, but it still knocked her to the floor. Rayla growled, flipped her slipswords into hook mode, and swung off the edge of the wall, using her momentum to swing herself back up into the air.

The Voidelf watched contemplatively as Rayla landed on the wall, blades back in sword mode, and Rayla could have sworn she had seen it before.

Rayla charged forwards, ducking past the Voidelf’s swing - that sunk into the stone - and stabbing towards the heart. The Voidelf was prepared for this, and jumped. Rayla’s swords stuck into its abdomen, but that wasn’t good enough, and she was pulled off balance as the Voidelf leapt over her, swords remaining fixed in its stomach.

That was Rayla’s chance.

Rayla allowed the swords to pull her backwards before she herself pulled them out, dropping into a backwards roll that would place her just in front of where the Voidelf would land, facing away from him - and stabbed her swords above and behind her head.

The Voidelf twisted in midair above her, landing just where she wanted, and the swords struck true. Rayla felt the faint vibrations as the Voidelf’s form disintegrated, leaving absolutely nothing behind - except for a small pouch, still tightly tied.

Rayla took the moment to draw air back into her lungs, and then crawled to the pouch, hefting it in her hand. Something puzzled her. Why would dark mages want _images_ enough to send four Voidelves after them?

Rayla ran back to the study to collect Oskar and to gather materials. She had always wondered why death- and life-grade were the least common of Shadowhawks - death and life were some of the most common things on the continent. Now, she believed she understood - and she understood why danger-grade was the most common.

Merzendrul’s Anger as he contacted Rothayla was immense. Due to her delays, they had lost the mission. This was inexcusable - sometimes, the mission proved too much for the Denizen, but here was a Denizen that was not enough for the mission. Here was a Denizen not worthy to return to Shadow’s Artifice.

Rothayla floated in the Gloaming with a mixture of Excitement and Purpose, and Merzendrul’s Anger slowly gave way to Puzzlement. What was this? Purpose was only for those who had completed their mission. Purpose was only for those who had _succeeded._

Suddenly, Rothayla assaulted him with information. It was only the leader who was given the mission, and it was their job to share it with the rest of the group.

Rothayla hadn’t.

Merzendrul cycled through Shock, Disbelief and finally Joy as the true implications of the mission finally became apparent to him. The flood of information finally ended with the somewhat cheeky words, _You did well, Father._

Merzendrul let the cheek slide. They had done well - and none better than Rothayla. It was a plan the likes of which Merzendrul had only ever heard about - crafting a _lie_ to better fulfil a mission.

Though Rothayla was nowhere near the elf’s level of talent, Merzendrul noted ruefully, she bore the name of that worthy opponent as well as any Denizen could.

* * *

Chapter 9

Zubeia rose from her lazy position as Janai marched out from one of the many doors on the roof of the Customs House, her face ashen.

“Great Dragon,” the Queen said shakily, kneeling, “may I take you up on your generous offer?”

“At any time,” Zubeia responded, leaping off her pillar onto the roof below and extending a wing as a ramp. She glanced around as Janai made herself comfortable, to see a small, winged red-and-brown speck shoot off from one of the balconies. 

Falling in beside Callum with four mighty beats of her wings, the archdragon shouted over the wind - “What happened?”

Janai and Callum wrought a tale of death and destruction, only just audible to Zubeia’s flight-adapted ears, as the two figures winged their way north to Korvalis.

Janai and Callum walked through the door of the warehouse once used to store grain for the long winter but now filled with over two hundred boxes, filled with packed snow and the bodies of Breach Forces Company B.

Councilman Trevor strode a little farther within the warehouse, backs to the two as he talked. “We’ve preserved the bodies with this method while we wait for word from their families. Has word been sent?” He glanced back at Janai.

“We’ve sent military-grade Shadowhawks to the Storm Spire, Lux Aurea and the various human kingdoms, explaining the entire situation,” Janai responded. “We’re not sure how they’re going to respond, but we’ll deal with that when it happens.”

A crash sounded from outside, and Zubeia’s head snaked in through the barn doors. Peeking past her, Callum noticed several townspeople in various stages of distress and worry - apparently, someone’s cabbage cart hadn’t got out of the way in time.

“I’ve swept the surrounding countryside in the line indicated by your tracker, Queen Janai,” the archdragon said, pausing to apologise to the distraught merchant, “and there isn’t any sign of dark magic. Whatever the portal the townspeople described was, it took them far.”

As Queen Janai began to make the preparations necessary to bring the Sunfire elves home, Callum felt a disturbance in the air, high above Korvalis. Normally, he was unable to make out anything at that distance, but the high magic content of the disturbance left him with a clear understanding of what was rapidly approaching Korvalis town.

A yellow, danger-grade Shadowhawk.

Callum plotted the Shadowhawk’s flight and surmised that it would land in the ground ten paces from his position. The Shadowhawk was for him, he realised, then acted.

The arrow flashed through the roof of the warehouse like it was paper, but somehow, Callum’s hands provided more resistance than the tiles and the Shadowhawk was easily caught by Callum’s leap. Callum landed in a kneel, the Shadowhawk in his grasp winking out of its magic, its task fulfilled. The moon opal in the eye of the arrow crumbled to dust.

Unrolling the paper, Callum’s eyes widened as Janai and Trevor walked over to his position, evidently drawn by the fact that he had just leapt ten feet in the air and caught an arrow. Voidelves had come for the pouch? 

“Are you at liberty to discuss the information within that Shadowhawk?” Janai asked, and Callum’s puzzlement and worry were overlaid with humour. Janai was ever the diplomat - as she had never been before she had become Queen, according to her soldiers.

“Yes, I am.” Callum stood up and turned to the two in one smooth motion. “There is a relic of dark magic I kept secreted in my study that has turned out to be far more important than I originally thought. Important enough for someone to send Voidelves to retrieve it.”

Janai’s eyes widened. “The nature of the relic?”

“Coins, upon which are imprinted the sleeping figures of Moonshadow elves. I know,” Callum said, gesturing disingenuously as Janai directed a puzzled look towards him, “it doesn’t exactly sound like dark magic - but three of the figures are unmistakably those of elves that were killed by High Mage Viren. I believed them to be keepsakes, tokens of victory, but now… now I am not so sure.”

“The Sunfire mages will help with any questions you may have, High Mage.”

“I know, and I thank them for it - but I don’t think the questions I have will be able to be answered by them.” Callum sighed. “Besides, a relic isn’t as important as the Queen Consort of the Sunfire Elves. I should - “

Janai held up a hand to silence him. “I think that the Dragon Queen and I are perfectly capable of handling the situation - but what we are not capable of handing, what only _you_ are capable of handling, is this sort of magic. We’ll be fine - your coins might not.”

Callum’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you, Your Radiance. I’ll be back as soon as I can be.”

Janai grinned as Callum strode to the door, storing the Shadowhawk and activating his mage-wings as he passed Zubeia. “If you aren’t quick, we might have her back before you return. Oh, and Callum?”

Callum paused in the doorway.

“Give my compliments to whoever stopped the Voidelves.”

Callum nodded and took off.

* * *

Chapter 10

Rayla jumped and drew her slipswords at the crash. Fortunately, it was Callum.

“You really need to work on sticking the landing, dear,” Rayla said admonishingly as she cleared the chair away from Callum’s impact site, where he lay groaning on the ground, mage-wings retreating into his ordinary arms.

Callum stood, dusted himself off and made a few cursory comments about having never gotten the hang of it, before he fished the Shadowhawk out of his satchel.

“Queen Janai sends her regards, by the way.”

“Regards received,” Rayla replied, playfully pushing her hair out of her face and walking out of the room. “Come on - Soren and I have placed it under guard.”

As the high boots and… well, less high boots - Callum and Rayla had similar tastes in footwear - made a pitter-patter down the stone corridors, the two held hands and took turns glancing at each other and figuring out which way they were going.

“So, how’s Oskar taking it?” Callum asked, navigating around a bust upon which sat some musty general who’d ended up with more soldiers in a battle or two.

“Enthusiastically,” Rayla said, guiding Callum through a narrow doorway. “He’s apparently mildly upset that none of his classmates believe him, and wants to bring one of the weapons to his class to show them.”

“So you gave him the smallest one?”

“No, sky, I didn’t give him any of the weapons.”

“Just checking your impulse control is still better than mine.”

They were walking side-by-side now. Rayla laughed softly at the joke, and took a moment to stare deep into Callum’s eyes.

Callum then walked into a wall, and Rayla resolved not to do that.

It was a slightly surreal sensation, walking into a heavily-guarded room with just a small pouch sitting in the centre.

“Soren wanted to put it on a plinth,” Rayla said cheerfully, “but none of the Crownguard wanted to move one into the room, and they eventually convinced him just to leave it as is.”

Callum was mildly distracted by the sight of his daughter standing to attention in full armour. “Hi.”

“Hi, dad.” The two stared at each other for around three seconds, before bursting into laughter. The other Crownguard trainee was grinning, Rayla had her head in her hands, and Soren was immediately in the doorway.

“High Mage, I would appreciate it,” Soren said, steepling his fingers and stepping into the room, “if you would not discourage discipline in the ranks and reduce the effectiveness of my soldiery.”

The other Crownguard - Callum vaguely remembered his name was Avrain, an Earthblood elf whose parents were immigrants - couldn’t keep it in any longer, and began laughing in a voice deeper than Callum’s, something that set the two generations off again while Soren and Rayla stood in mutual contempt.

Callum vaguely heard something about opposites attracting from Rayla, and an agreement from Soren, before straightening up.

“Sorry, Captain Soren. I will endeavour in future to encourage discipline in your ranks.” Callum knelt down, took the coin pouch in one hand and was suddenly assailed with the weight of what it contained. Looking up at Rayla, he said softly, “I will keep it safe, my love. I promise that with my heart.”

Rayla smiled and hugged her High Mage as he stood. “I know you will.”

The three Crownguards stood as inanimately as they could until the two had finished, and then followed them out of the room.

A day’s flight later, Callum stood outside the wards that protected the Silvergrove from the attacks that it had come to expect over the past seven hundred years. One of the reasons that Moonshadow elves were the least populous of all the elven races was that their blood, bones, flesh and (most importantly) hearts were among the most useful of all the varieties of elves.

Callum remembered the first - and last - time he had stepped into the Silvergrove, dancing with Rayla on an overturned log that served as the key to the ancient sanctuary. Lujanne had taught him well, though, and he no longer needed to dance.

Callum waved his hand, slashed runes in the air, and opened the veil himself.

Shocked Moonshadow faces stared towards the rent in reality, with Callum at its centre, as he walked past them towards a very special tree near the centre of town. A burst of Sky magic opened the door - Callum felt no need to be courteous - and the Mage Artorc turned at the disturbance.

“What is - High Mage Callum. What is the meaning of this?” Artorc’s demeanour shifted from bored to outright hostile, but that was fine - Callum was already in that state.

Callum tossed the pouch on the table, and two of its coins spilled out. “I hope you understand that these are the direst of circumstances.” Callum tossed the pouch onto the table. “Four Voidelves were sent after this small pouch of coins. I was not aware that this pouch was more valuable than some kingdoms, and I want to know what it is.”

Artorc opened the pouch, extracted a coin, then dropped it as if it were red-hot, face blanching. “I know not why these are valuable,

but they are _terrible_.”


	3. The Prisons of Mages

Episode 3: The Prisons of Mages

* * *

_ Black smoke blinds the Sun _

_ Watching Elarion burn _

_ And burning with it _

  * Poem often attributed to the Midnight Star, used as a battle-cry in the Mage Wars and, more recently, the Dark Insurgency



* * *

Chapter 1

One line on a map spelled peril for Janai, but her face and soul hardened and she directed Zubeia’s sharp gaze to it with a purposeful hand.

The line was drawn from the township, in the direction of the tracker she and Amaya had for each other. The tracker, a small enchanted compass, gave not the distance to its pair, but the direction was clearly emblazoned on the dial - as was true North. 

The line passed over mountains, forests, and some small areas of the northwest Midnight Desert. It cleaved new human settlements in two, sundered rivers, and dirtied fields with its rough graphite crumbs - but one location was of special interest to Janai, and she was near-certain that the tracker pointed there.

The line passed straight through the centre of the Valrion Wastes, an old mining complex created by the Sunfire Elves in search of the special metals that could be alloyed to forge Sunforged Blades, but abandoned centuries ago due to the depredations of magical monsters. Soulfang serpents roamed the mineshafts, acidic slime ate away at the walls, strange beasts the size of wolves but eyeless and layered with chitinous armour lay in the corridors, sometimes not moving for years on end, waiting for their next meal.

So, of course, it was a near certainty that dark mages would set up shop there.

The Dragon Queen scowled as she peered over the map, eyes alighting on the sole point of interest along the line. “You believe their lair is in the Wastes?”

“Almost certainly.”

Zubeia snarled, the low rumble shaking the square. Townsfolk glanced at the pair of queens, then went about their business - the dragon and the elf may have been their rulers, but they were a relatively unimportant part of the villagers’ lives, and proximity didn’t change that. “If only it pointed west, into the human kingdoms. We might have destroyed a stronghold of the Dark Insurgency if they’d chosen to go to one of their favoured boltholes.”

“Actually, I’m rather happy they’ve chosen someplace this side of the border. How do you think the Del Barians would react if a dragon began ripping open their cities looking for dark mages?”

“I do not  _ rip _ ,” Zubeia sniffed. “I’ll have you know I am far more subtle in my methods.”

“Well, when we get to the Valrion Wastes, take care not to collapse the entire complex with your subtlety.” Zubeia scoffed and arched a wing, motioning for Janai to jump on. She did so - fluid, gracile movements navigating the aerodynamically slick scales upon the dragon’s wing-struts - and once the Sunfire Queen was settled, the Dragon Queen raised her wings and took off with a crack of thunder.

Zubeia soared above the clouds, breathing in the power of the air around her as the elf above her drank in the Sun. Here, they were both in their element - not as much as they each could be, but as much as they  _ both _ could be. It would be hard to get a lava flow up above the mountainous cumulus clouds for Janai to feel her full power, and if Zubeia summoned a thunderstorm it would block out the Sun, but here above - and sometimes among - the clouds, the two were both in their element.

Janai shouted over the wind, probably for her own sake. The air currents for miles around were an open book for Zubeia, and that included the air currents around Janai’s mouth.

“How are you going to get into the Wastes, Dragon Queen? The tunnels aren’t exactly built for beasts of your majesty.”

Zubeia thought for a moment, then realised something. “I had assumed you would go in there on your own, but… that might be just a little reckless.” Zubeia felt no need to shout - her words flowed back to Janai on the wind. “Do we turn back to gather reinforcements?”

Janai shook her head, disturbing the wind with her crown. “We can’t afford to lose the time. Besides, reinforcements didn’t help Amaya, and they’ll help even less in the cramped tunnels. If I can’t do anything, a hundred soldiers won’t be able to either.”

“Not even mages?”

Janai sat silent for a long time. “I’ve seen mage battles from around a mile away, and I don’t want to be in the middle of one. I’ll trust in my own powers.”

Zubeia growled. “Just know that if I believe you to be compromised, I’ll tear the Wastes apart to find you, collapse or no collapse.”

The reply came. “If I’m compromised, a tunnel collapse will be the least of my issues.”

The two continued in silence, elation of existing in their Primal Sources dulled by the grim reminder that they would be travelling somewhere where neither of those Sources held sway.

It was sunset by the time the two arrived at the Valrion Wastes, Zubeia landing on a roughly rectangular outcrop of rock that lay before the once-grand entrance of the mines. The compass was now deflected to the southwest - in the exact direction of the entrance.

Two curved metal struts soared from the rusty-red valley floor, meeting in the middle at a point capped by a massive stone, from which stared the stony visage of Sol Regem. The arch was set into one of the valley walls, and looking through it, Janai could see criss-crossing shafts and crumbling ruins - even the remains of a fortress, its sides constructed of a strange black material that Janai could have sworn was volcanic glass.

“I’ve never seen it up close,” Janai remarked as she stepped down from the dragon’s wing. “Who built a fortress in the mouth of a mine? And - “ Janai got a closer look at the fortress, realising that her suspicions were correct - “why out of obsidian?”

“This was one of the great battlegrounds of the Mage Wars,” Zubeia said in a low voice, almost hissing. “Early in the wars, the Wastes were taken over by the forces of dark magic, and every single miner… Almost two hundred elves were sacrificed to give the mages the power over magma needed to construct the walls of the fortress that now stands empty in there. They couldn’t construct an entire fortress, so they made a wall to protect from the outside and populated the inside with the terrors that now exist in it today, to prevent an attack from the tunnels. Unfortunately for them, their own creations didn’t bother to distinguish friend from food, and the fortress became a prison, and then a slaughtering ground.”

“Sun above,” Janai whispered. “Why were we never taught this?”

“Whenever an Elf hears ‘dark magic’, their first instinct is to destroy it. The Valrion Wastes are impossible to destroy, and we the dragons didn’t want you trying - and dying.”

“The Wastes are impossible to destroy, even for you?”

Zubeia sighed. “The dark mages were experts. Those walls stood to dragonfire.”

“Thanks for the encouragement. Let’s see if I can root out the last of the darkness.” Janai drew her Sunforged sword, Shadow’s Death, and made for the mouth of the caverns.

* * *

Chapter 2

Shadow’s Death, counter to its name, created strange shadows on the walls as Janai walked through one of the gates of the dark fortress. She took care not to touch any of the volcanic glass - she knew it was only mundane rock, and had been since it had cooled all those hundreds of years ago, but now she knew its history, she felt... afraid of it?

No.  _ Horrified _ was the correct word. Horrified at the loss of life, disgusted at those who wrought such horror, and sorry for the souls who had been twisted, killed and forced to obey their commands. Sorry that her ancestors hadn’t snuffed out the darkness when they’d had the chance. She knew why she didn’t touch the glass now - she would respect the dead killed because of the elves’ negligence.

And she would prevent the horror from happening again.

Janai passed through the gate’s curious anti-shadow, her sword now a significant source of light in addition to the Sun in the entrance, and looked back towards the great dragon lying on the ground in front of the mines. Zubeia motioned encouragingly, but Janai could see the tension in her claws, mostly because of the cracks in the stone beneath them. She nodded encouragingly back, and slipped through the gate.

Arriving behind the wall, Janai saw massive, flame-shaped flying buttresses supporting the edifice, obsidian licking up the sides of the wall in an almost beautiful fashion. Janai caught herself, feeling slightly ashamed at admiring the architecture - though a small piece of her wished to look upon it more - and moved on, feeling the weight of the two spare swords she had requisitioned from Company B’s spare supplies, loath to take the dead soldiers’ weapons.

Her wife was waiting for her.

Dripping drops made a strange cadence as the warrior waded through the water beneath the red rocks of the Sunfire badlands. Janai had tested the underground cesspool, and found it to not be acidic at least, but she remained on guard, ready to respond to anything about her environment that seemed off. Dark magic was an insidious force - it could worm its way anywhere.

Something latched onto Janai’s foot, and she made the split-second decision that that seemed off.

The water transformed into a churning white froth around Janai as whatever was in the water realised that Janai’s armour was too strong for its teeth, and reeled up above the water to try and find some more squishy place to bite.

It was a giant, eyeless, jawless worm, greenish-white body pulsating with the effort of keeping what could roughly pass for its head above water and teeth flexing in its upper throat.

Janai sprang forward, escaping the worm’s body as it constricted into a coil around where she had been, and sliced off its head, sending a green spray of whatever passed for blood in its body over her. Luckily, that was just disgusting.

The brief triumphant smile vanished from Janai’s face as the worm immediately lunged at her with teeth now emerging from what had once been its  _ lower _ throat. Apparently, the thing didn’t have an actual head.

Janai was knocked off her feet by the worm’s flailing tail, only just managing to roll out of the way as the new head slammed into the water beside her. Janai’s armour was now encrusted with mud and worse than mud, but she paid no heed to the stains, given they would be joined by her blood if she wasn’t quick enough.

The severed head lunged at her.

Janai scrambled back, desperately fending the thing off with Shadow’s Death and eventually bisecting it longitudinally with a frantic upwards sweep. However, the time she’d spent killing the smaller worm - and now she was sure it was dead, the two halves useless given they’d been chopped lengthwise - had allowed the larger beast to shrug off the impact it’d given itself and leap at her, a full half of its body leaving the water.

The toothed maw slammed into Janai’s breastplate, knocking the wind out of her and pinning her against the wall. Shadow’s Death fell from her grip, barely missing her foot and hissing as it contacted the water.

The worm recoiled as if stung, and Janai scrambled up the wall, out of the pool. The worm shook its entire body as if throwing off a Moonshadow flash, and struck - three metres to Janai’s left.

Again, three metres to Janai’s left. Almost as if it had been blinded.

Janai looked down at the sword raising steam as it lay in the pool, and tentatively shuffled over to its location. She dropped down, and the instant her feet touched the water, the worm’s mouth snapped around and lunged for its prey.

Sweeping up the sword, Janai cut the mid-air head of the worm in half, two useless half-cylinders of muscle and tooth swinging around on its neck, and scrambled out of the water, away from the liquid that somehow allowed the creature to sense her.

The worm flailed around for a while, leaking green blood, before something sealed its mouth back together. Looking around, it sensed that its prey was gone - even though Janai was standing not a metre from the water’s edge - and settled back down to wait for another victim.

Janai checked her compass - it pointed ahead, thankfully, away from the worm - and set off down the next corridor, stabbing Shadow’s Death into a wall to get the gunk off.

The difficulty of cleaning a Sunforged Blade was no object when one considered its other properties.

* * *

Chapter 3

“Why were these not given to us before?! They’re of great importance to the Moonshadow elves!”

Callum crossed his arms. “I had no idea what they were - and I still don’t. What are they?”

Artorc ran his fingers through his almost-grey hair. “You are aware that much of the basis of Dark Magic - the manipulation of souls, the movement of energy from place to place - is derived from Star Magic?”

“That is the theory, yes.”

Artorc directed an annoyed glance at Callum. “Well, soul-trapping is often said to be one of the most rudimentary dark forms. A dark mage can, with either special ingredients or a powerful-enough relic, destroy the body of an individual and trap a… blueprint, along with their soul and mind, in an object small enough to contain them. In the case of Moonshadow elves, the object must be made of metal, so coins are often used.” Artorc held a coin in his hand, beholding the sleeping form of an elf roughly forty years old, with a broken horn and unbroken  _ kaldari _ markings. “This one, I recognise. How did…”

“Rayla believed them to be memories, tokens of victory for High Mage Viren.”

“How did she not know their meaning? Any elf over the age of twenty could tell you the names of every Moonshadow elf whose coin we’ve recovered since the Mage Wars, let alone - “

“Well, that would be a discrepancy of four years, then, wouldn’t it? Rayla hasn’t had much chance to learn Moonshadow culture, having been  _ ejected _ from it as a teenager.”

The two glared at each other, neither willing to give the slightest twitch to their opponent. Artorc went on the offensive. “It is because of  _ your wife _ that  _ this _ is here,” the words slashed through the air as he angrily presented the coin, “and because of her that the rest of her group are dead and buried.”

“Oh, let’s not stop there, shall we? Rayla is the reason you’re standing here, Rayla is the reason the Silvergrove is not a charred scar in the middle of the forest, Rayla is the reason I and many other people are alive!” Callum vaguely noted that his hands were at his sides in what could be seen as an offensive battle-stance, but he didn’t care, even as the shorter Moonshadow elf took a step back. “Rayla has done more to keep balance and justice in this world than anyone I know, and especially more than you!”

“That does not excuse her crimes,” Artorc said, trying to exercise a united front and failing.

“Then your justice system is flawed!” Callum’s hands became claws as he angrily gestured. “Deeply - flawed.”

Artorc stepped back, seeming to wrestle with his own mind, before turning stone-faced and beginning to lecture almost robotically, “Do not presume to make light of Moonshadow culture, human. Our civilisation was old before yours smelted its first metal, and...”

But Callum’s mind was not on the curiously subdued tirade. It was on his satchel.

Light spilled forth from it as the Moon rune of the Key of Aaravos put on a light show.

Artorc paused in his speech as Callum, seeming to lose all interest in him, dashed over to observe the Key. Its existence had long been known to the elves, but they had allowed him to keep it because it was harmless, the elves didn’t know what to do with it, and Callum wanted it.

“What’s so interesting, mage?”

“The Moon rune’s lighting up. More than it should.”

Artorc scoffed dismissively. “There are two mage-level Moon arcana in the room. I would be worried if it  _ didn’t _ light up. The imbecilic nature of - “

Callum held up a hand. “Do you not understand the meaning of ‘more than it should’? I…” Callum sniffed the air and turned to Artorc. “Humour me, if you will, and let me do a bit of magic.”

Artorc beheld the man before him. Endlessly hostile to the Moonshadow elves, a champion of elf-human relationships and the destruction of ‘backwards elven ideals’, married to a  _ ghost _ , of all things, a traitor to the Silvergrove and a destroyer of life - and yet somehow, he felt he could trust the mage. Perhaps it was that Callum, when he wished to be hostile,  _ was _ hostile. Artorc couldn’t recall a time he’d tried to act conciliatory towards anyone he disapproved of. Most unlike his brother. “Fine,” Artorc said - adding with a hint of reproach, “but if you break anything, you have to fix it.”

Callum slashed a few runes in the air, and magic infused the room.

And Artorc blacked out.

_ Whispers. _

_ Whispers of war. Of death. Of destruction. _

_ Whispers of deceit. _

_ They hid the enchantment so that nobody would misuse its dark twin ever again. _

_ Ghosting would be reserved for the truly vile, the murderers, the traitors, and all the Silvergrove would know that, once ghosted, an elf should never be unghosted, under any circumstances. Excuses would be given, rationalisations made, but under no circumstances would an elf agree to break the ghosting enchantment. _

_ Because if they did, they would realise they wouldn’t know how to. _

Artorc woke up with a concerned Callum at his side, offering him a cup of water. He waved it away, just before the realisation hit him.

“I’m sorry,” Callum said as he placed the cup down. “That was just a simple Moon spellbreaker. I didn’t know it would have this effect on - “

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Callum blinked. “Did you hit your head?”

“No, I… the enchantment that you broke… was some sort of mind-alterer. I thought those were outlawed. It… increased hostility towards ghosts, prevented thinking clearly about their actions. I think - I think it was a memory weave.”

Callum sat back, mulling it over. Lujanne must have taught him about memory weaves, Artorc thought, even if only in passing. She’d been too good a mage to have left it out.

“If it was a memory weave, what was it blocking?”

Ah. Good.

“The fact that there is no known method of unghosting someone.”

* * *

Chapter 4

It had been hours, and Janai still felt no closer to her target.

The corridors had more or less remained at constant peril levels since the worm. Janai had killed several of the chitin-wolves, and now wore one of their exoskeletal skulls on her belt, washed in acid - she’d found that tended to deter them; she’d found some of the acidic slime, resulting in a small hole in her metal heel and several severe burns on her left hand, which still stung; and after sticking her sword in a larger-than-normal pool and hearing a long, echoing screech, she’d backtracked perhaps fifty metres to bypass the submerged section of the mine.

Shadow’s Death lit the way as Janai advanced slowly down the corridor, padding through the sand that seemed to characterise this section of the mines. The grains got into her armour via the hole and began to itch - Janai ignored the sensation.

Stopping at a crossroads, she checked her compass - it pointed directly ahead, which was a good sign. Putting it away, she was about to start forward when she noticed depressions in the sand, each a conjunction of two circles that denoted a pincer-like, clawed foot. A chitin-wolf.

Janai knew how to deal with these things now - one turned the tables, ambushing them and killing them with a rapid strike to the head. Shadow’s Death cut through their armour like butter. She started off down the corridor, in the direction of the tracks.

There was one upside to a sandy floor - it made tracking far easier.

Janai came to the top of an incline and knelt in the sand, her helm affixed to her belt the same as her wolf skull. It was all very well having head protection, but stylised, polished metal horns weren’t exactly conducive to stealth, and eyeless chitin-wolves weren’t the only perils of the mines. Peeking over the incline, Janai saw that the coast was clear and moved on.

This area was a strip-mine. Evidently, the Sunfire Elves of old had found large veins of one of the minerals necessary to forge Sunforged blades - judging by the colour of the walls, Janai guessed it was tungsten. Rails sat on the sandy floor, the claw-prints of the chitin-wolf remaining resolutely in the middle of them.

Janai checked each and every shaft, room and corridor as she walked, keeping Shadow’s Death high - the wolves didn’t respond to light, only sound. The chitin-wolves weren’t smart enough to think about their own tracks, but they sometimes circled back around to them by blind luck. Janai checked a room with a long-rotted wooden door, and her breath caught in her throat.

In the room were three skeletons, picked clean by the ages and scavengers, thankfully none large enough to disturb the bones. From what Janai could tell, it was two men and a woman of roughly a hundred years each - probably miners. A small vial lay beside the second man’s hand, while two knives, pitted and worn by centuries of contact with the cool, damp air, lay in the woman’s lap. Tentatively edging closer, Janai picked up the vial and smelled almonds - the poison that had once filled it would only have been enough for two people.

These three hadn’t allowed the mages to get to them.

Janai took note of the location, adding it to her growing mud-map of the Wastes, and left.

Edging once more along the corridors, Janai was careful not to make a sound - the sand helped her in that, although she had to move inch by inch to prevent her armour screeching as metal slid on metal - 

_ crack _

Janai froze in place, looking down at her foot. 

Although only a small part of the heel had actually been eaten through, a larger section - perhaps the size of Janai’s ear - had been weakened by the acid, and it chose this time to break off, issuing a small but noticeable percussion that chilled Janai to the bone.

Only swiftness would save her now.

Abandoning all pretense of stealth, Janai dashed down the corridors, activating her Molten form as she went. The dim, dank tunnels were the opposite of a Sunfire elf’s environment - Janai felt a sickening sensation as she realised what it would be like to die down here - but the magic held. As she swung round into another corridor, Janai saw the chitin-wolf, grey in the dark, and with a yell of a thousand timbres and pitches layered on top of each other, Janai raised Shadow’s Death and brought the sword down point-first onto its neck. The wolf sagged.

Puzzled, Janai looked the wolf over. It had barely moved when she had come charging down the corridor behind it, screaming blue murder. They relied on sound to see - Janai would have existed in the equivalent of a blaze of light.

It was grey in the light, too. Stone-grey, like the colour had been sucked from it.

And as Janai realised what had happened to the wolf, a Soulfang leapt from the sand and buried its teeth in her exposed heel.

Janai existed in pain as her soul threatened to rip free from her body, only her Molten form keeping it from being instantly devoured. The agony was all-consuming, crafting burning lines along her  _ magmalar _ , the lines that formed the protective, empowering web over her skin that was the basis of the Molten form, the lines that denoted her ability to draw on the power of the Sun, the power of the fiery depths of the Earth, and the power of her sword.

She realised now what strength Shadow’s Death gave her, and thanked whatever was watching over her for the gift of the sword. 

_ Khessa gave you the sword. _

_ Maybe Khessa’s watching over me too. _

Janai felt a sudden shift, and dropped to one knee as her soul detached itself from her leg, causing the limb to buckle and a new wave of pain to wrack her body. Strong as her Molten form was, Soulfang venom was stronger, and even now she felt it coursing through her veins, corroding her soul even as her Sun magic pushed it back.

Fighting waves of what felt like knives being continuously pushed into her skin (and she knew what that felt like), Janai forced her sword around to strike at the snake. Focusing on its curiously resistant meal, the Soulfang didn’t realise until the last second, and by then it was too late. The two smoking halves of the serpent fell into the sand, and Janai sighed with relief as the last of the venom was destroyed and her soul recovered. Then she ran.

Soulfangs emerged from the sand after her, but she was too fast for them, and within minutes, following the compass, she was back on solid rock. She began to walk forward, but then realised that the compass was pointing back. She stepped back, and the compass switched directions. Smiling, Janai turned the tracker perpendicular to the ground, noting that it pointed straight downwards.

Janai flourished her sword and dropped through the floor with three smooth strokes. She might be a hundred floors above them, but she was at last on their track.

* * *

Chapter 5

Soren’s footsteps echoed on the cold stone floor as he made his way towards the suite of rooms that now housed the Crownguard. They’d had to eject three dignitaries from their offices and knock down a wall that one of the castle engineers had said was load-bearing, but nothing had fallen down yet, so Soren was feeling optimistic about the placement.

He was feeling less optimistic about the person he was about to speak to.

The door opened after the knock confirmed nobody was in a state of disarray, and Soren walked into Dormitory 2. The dorm was separated from Dormitory 1 by a wooden wall nailed onto the replacement load-bearing beam, which had been broken three times, all by the trainees attempting to act out a scene from a book. For some reason, even though Soren had made them repair it themselves, they’d kept doing it. It was apparently a running joke.

The dorm was almost empty - most of the trainees were out doing various things such as guarding the King, doing odd jobs, or enjoying themselves in Resmark. Mostly the latter - it was eight at night and the older trainees were out enjoying the finer aspects of civilisation.

Uele, a Sunfire half-elf, noted Soren’s presence with a nod, nudging Tiadrin on the lower bunk with her bare foot. Uele hadn’t grown horns, but still chose to wear  _ kaldari _ markings as a sign of her culture, something that earned her a lot of flak from people who had less brain-cells than fingers to count them on.

Tiadrin looked up, deadpan. “Captain Soren.”

Soren winced inwardly. It was an unspoken code of the Crownguard - ‘Soren’ would be used when they were happy, ‘sir’ in everyday speech, and his full title when they were mad or despondent or otherwise didn’t want to talk. Soren didn’t guess as to why - guessing implied uncertainty.

“Tiadrin.” Soren sat down on the bed opposite the trainee’s - he vaguely remembered this one was Vara’s.

“Captain,  _ sir _ , with respect, leave well enough alone.”

“I don’t want to leave you alone.” The words came naturally to Soren, as they never had on a page. He stared into Tiadrin’s eyes, resolutely and earnestly, blinking once or twice every three seconds to reassure her that this wasn’t a competition.

Ezran had always told him that the best way to sway others to your side was to be yourself. Soren had laughed it off at the time, but eventually, he’d come to realise that Ezran meant that specifically for him.

Tiadrin scoffed and broke the match.  _ She’d _ treated it as a staring competition. “You don’t understand, sir. You’re going to get the King killed.”

“And you think you can save him.”

“I know the Crownguard can save him. But not with the weapons they have.”

Soren nodded. “You think, because I couldn’t save the King, they can’t either.”

Tiadrin looked up at him, shocked. Soren realised the tone in which he’d said it hadn’t been the one he was going for - but perhaps it had been the more truthful one. “No, I - I just think that if - “

“I had chosen to die, King Harrow might live.”

“No, wait, I never said that. I meant - “

“Because you’re right, Tiadrin.”

Silence.

“On that night, I was in a position to kill one of the elves, but I chose to protect myself instead. That elf turned out to be the one to kill King Harrow. If I had chosen to go through with that single sword-stroke, the blood from my slit throat would be on the walls above us, and Harrow might still be king.”

Tiadrin sat on the bed, eyes like saucers.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking. I know first-hand the problems it can cause, why not try to prevent them from happening again?”

The half-elf suddenly found her voice. “No, I would never think that! That’s terrible, why would I - use your pain to try and win an argument?”

“The line of thinking is more valid than you’d think. You get used to thinking like that, when you’ve been a soldier for a while. But I think I know why it’s wrong.”

Tiadrin’s limbs tensed as she shifted position.

Soren continued. “When I protected myself, I killed another elf. What if that elf had been the one to kill Harrow? Then my blood  _ and _ his would be staining the rugs upstairs, and nobody would be better off.

Even if it’s the King, Tiadrin, the  _ certainty _ of your life is better than the  _ chance _ of his. When Moonshadow elves commit themselves to a cause, they commit themselves entirely. They can even die for merely the  _ chance _ of their cause succeeding - because if they don’t, and the cause fails, that chance wasn’t a chance at all. But humans love chance - we always plan with the fact that life is, well, chancey in mind. King Ezran accepts the chance that he might die because we’re not ready to give up our lives as certainties, because he knows it’s a small chance and that the certainty of any one of us is greater. You just need to accept that too.”

Tiadrin pulled her legs up to her chest, staring down at the ground between the bunks. “I just… feel like I’m betraying my culture by doing this - doing  _ human _ things.”

Soren smiled. “You’re in a unique position, Tiadrin. You can get the best of both worlds - of Moonshadow and of Human. Just remember,” he said, standing and letting his armour fall around him with a final  _ clack _ , “your decisions should be made because you yourself  _ believe _ in them, not because someone tells you to.”

Tiadrin gave a faint smile. “Says the man who’s just finished lecturing me on how to think.”

“Hey,” Soren said, moving to leave, “I’ve just given you some good arguments for the other side. If you come up with better ones, you’re free to lecture back.”

With that, the Crownguard Captain walked out the door and to the King’s chamber. He was on first watch tonight - the trainees had insisted he be added to the roster in the spirit of fairness - and he wasn’t about to be late to it.

Self-preservation was all well and good, but tardiness was inexcusable.

* * *

Chapter 6

Artorc stood up and began pulling books off shelves, before the wave of nausea crashed into him and he fell back onto the floor. Callum rushed to help, saying reassuringly but firmly as he laid Artorc down, “Maybe it’s best if you tell me what books you need and I get them for you.” Artorc nodded, rattling off a series of magical theory and history books that Callum provided immediately. 

Leafing through one, propped up on one elbow, Artorc motioned to Callum, telling him to pick up another one and search through it for mentions of rituals carried out by the entire Silvergrove. The two spent hours looking through the books, Artorc focusing on magical theory and Callum reading the histories.

The light level on Callum’s wristband dimmed as the Sun set below the horizon, though there was no perceived change in the sky above. The darkness-bound Silvergrove made no distinction between day and night. Still, the two searched, and an hour after sunset, as if by unspoken cosmological agreement, both found what they were looking for within a minute of the other.

Callum was first, bleary eyes suddenly adjusting to focus on the page in front of him, intent on his prize. “Hah!” Callum slid the book over to the elven mage, pointing to the second paragraph from the left, and Artorc smiled as he read. 

“Legend tells of the Moon Druids crafting enchantments that could bypass the usual restrictions on these forms, allowing them to place enchantments on all members of a particular species, of a particular cause, or even a specific, unwilling person. The Moonshadow form has been posited by the scholars Freyjas and Crescenda to be a remnant of this ancient Moon magic, allowing an incomplete form of ‘ghosting’ performed  _ by _ the ‘ghost’ onto all other creatures. This is in concurrence with their theory of innate crafting, a theory that states that the innate magics of elves are, in fact, all that remains of the magic of the Foreworld.

These enchantments, legend states, would need to be woven by an assembly of the Silvergrove, at the Moon Nexus at a full moon. The historian Fracti states that, if these legends are true, then when the Moon Druids broke the portal to Arvmundis and the elves retreated to the East, they found they could not access the same levels of power in the Silvergrove that they could at the Nexus, and so the enchantments fell into disuse and eventually obscurity.”

Artorc nodded. “But we know that’s not true.”

“How so?”

Artorc tapped his skull. “Because until tonight, I had magic in my brain preventing me from understanding these higher forms. How do you use magic you don’t know about to block access to that same magic?” He looked down at the page he had absentmindedly flipped to and blinked in surprise. “Well, hello there.” He picked up Callum’s spare notebook and began taking notes and drawing diagrams, eyes intently scanning the page. Callum looked over his shoulder as he wrote.

Continuing on with their research, Callum and Artorc searched, read and occasionally wrote as the night dragged on, bolstering the two Moon mages despite their fatigue. At one point, Artorc looked over and saw the other mage slumped over his current book, snoring slightly with his head on his side. Artorc snatched the book out from his grasp before drops of saliva started landing on it, shaking his head at the young human’s lack of stamina.

He didn’t remember when he fell asleep, but when he awoke the next morning, he realised with a twinge of annoyance that he’d  _ definitely _ drooled on his books.

Callum had been awake for a while by the time Artorc snorted his way to consciousness, and had taken the time to cook himself some breakfast. It had long been known to him that Moonshadow elves were vegetarian, which was why he always kept some meat in a Sky magic icebox he’d constructed for that specific purpose.

The mage arose from a position any physiotherapist would have had an extremely healthy heart attack from looking at and made a few half-hearted grumbles about the stench of animal meat before shuffling off to the cupboard Callum had found an hour ago containing his stash of roasted moonberries. Callum gestured with an illusory hand to a kettle that had just finished heating the stuff, and Artorc silently took it and transferred the steaming brown liquid to two cups.

Callum chatted as he finished with the bacon, stowing his field skillet and eating the strips with his hands, trusting his shaky grasp of Sun magic to prevent the burns. As he ate, he spoke.

“I think we’ve been sidetracked just a little.”

Artorc sipped his moonrise potion and replied, “Yes, you wanted to do research on the coins, didn’t you?” The elf sighed. “Unfortunately, though we have recovered around thirty coins, we haven’t been able to do much with them.” Artorc set down his potion and walked over to the shelf, pulling down a thin tome in a verdigris-coloured binding. “This is the Archmage Varian’s treatise on soul-trapping, and how to reverse it. Unfortunately, it requires Star magic, and both the unicorns and the Startouch elves have disappeared from this land.” The elf sighed. “I’m sorry, but I’m pretty sure they’re useless.”

Callum leafed through the book, memorising each page. “I’ve met many things in my time as High Mage of Katolis that looked useless. Have a guess at how many actually were.”

Artorc cocked an eyebrow and said “None?” in a voice laced with sardonicism.

“It was over half of them. But,” Callum said, “I’m always willing to take a chance. I could use some help back in Katolis, you know.”

The elf looked incredulously at Callum, who had reversed out of the tree and was activating his mage wings. With concentration, he could now do it without the words - something all accomplished mages could do, but were usually far too dramatic to even consider.

“I can’t fly, you know. It would take me a week to - “

“Not if you ride on my back.”

There was a  _ clunk _ and then a  _ splash  _ as Artorc dropped his cup. “What?! Ow!” 

Callum looked back at Artorc, staring dejectedly at a potion stain on his lower robes. “Mage-wings can easily carry two. We’ll be in Resmark before you know it.”

Artorc pondered, then shrugged. “I’ve never flown before. I’ll take that offer.”

* * *

Chapter 7

After a few reckless drops, Janai figured that it would be best to approach the enemy from the side, rather than through the ceiling. Backtracking fifty metres, she noticed that the compass needle deflected noticeably to the right. She was close - perhaps two or three levels away.

Slicing through the next level, then the next, she landed in a cloud of dust and a curiously soft crack of ancient stone on ancient stone. It was really more of a crumble, she thought as she stepped off her impromptu dais, checked her compass (now pointing straight ahead) and cautiously made her way down the corridors, this time sheathing Shadow’s Death and drawing one of the spare swords.

This time, her enemies had eyes.

Amaya’s eyes cracked open at the sound of approaching footsteps, and she moved her head slightly upwards, careful not to disturb the recently-scabbed lining of her nose or the dried, uncomfortable shell of the blood that had poured down from it.

Only Viren and the rotworm elf possessed the ability to walk towards her in this hellscape, and both would cause her nose to bleed again and her face to contort in a silent scream as their poisons took effect. It was the way of the world for now - eat, sleep, pain, repeat. Often, the third one to the detriment of the first two.

But if finding what comfort she could in the tomb-like darkness was the only rebellion she could experience, she would damn well  _ revel _ in it.

Gren hadn’t been subjected to what she had been - his only role was as translator, they didn’t need information from him - but she was sure that the past few days had taken a heavy toll on him. Both of them had witnessed the murder of Company B, and were now both at the mercy of their murderers, torturing her for information that was as varied as it was nonsensical.

Some of it - in fact, almost half of it - was stuff she knew, and few others knew, and was incredibly valuable. Research into metallurgy in the new Halfheim Mines, battle training of the new Eveneren tactical units, inter-species diplomacy. However, that still left over half that was either trivial or known to everyone. Any schoolchild in Katolis would have been capable of telling you how the Battle of Karman’s Hill was fought and won, but Viren and his pet seemed to be terrible at history. And who exactly needed to know about the health of the Percandor family’s dogs? Amaya’s situation seemed to fluctuate constantly between cosmic tragedy and farce. Sometimes, she even wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Perhaps that was her sanity slipping.

The footsteps belonged to the rotworm elf. Amaya slumped over in her chains, feigning disinterested sleep - she was more frightened of the elf than of he who had once been High Mage, but she wasn’t about to let that show.

The elf knelt down to her, looking into her eyes. “I’m sure you know all about dark magic and the creatures it can create.”

Amaya scowled.  _ Well enough. _ The signing was caught and translated by Gren. 

“This,” the elf said, producing a grub from his sleeve around a thumb’s thickness and pulsating white, “is a wonderful little invention of mine that feeds off thoughts, processing them into audible sound. It sits - “

the elf grabbed Amaya’s face and forced her jaw open. In her usual condition, Amaya could have easily broken the hold, but in this weakened form, she was close to useless, and she watched helplessly as the elf let the grub crawl backwards, onto her tongue and down her throat, nestling where her vocal cords would have been.

“You see, Viren,” the rotworm elf called, “there are always multiple solutions to any problem, and the best one usually involves dark magic.”

“So, the translator is no longer required?” Viren said, stepping out of the shadows and sending a bolt of electricity through Amaya’s otherwise weakened spine. She snapped at the chains binding her to the wall, trying in vain to get at the High Mage but helpless to stop what had already been ordained.

“Oh, yes,” the elf said almost dismissively, “you can… ‘get rid’ of him. Is that how you humans say it? So eager to find words other than ‘kill’, as if you could wash the bloodstains off with semantics… Where is he?”

Amaya whirled around, heeding not the bug making itself comfortable in her throat, and saw a pair of red-hot, cut through chains, and standing above them was Queen Janai.

Amaya’s beautiful, selfless, intelligent, strong, oh so foolish wife.

* * *

Chapter 8

Janai sprang into action, activating her Molten form and striking with Shadow’s Death at the Startouch elf. The elf fell backwards to the ground, slicing an Earth rune into the air with fierce determination and yelling, “ _ Montante! _ ” At his command, an earthen sword leapt from the floor of the tunnel, blocking the Sunforged blade with pure earthen will. 

Shadow’s Death was melting quickly through the blade, but not quickly enough, as the grey-skinned human swung his bone-white metal staff at her, forcing her to duck, then flip over the sword and retreat down the corridor slightly. As Janai got a good look at the human, she realised that she had seen him once before.

The last time she had seen him, he had been wearing little more than a bedsheet in preparation for the Purification of the Sun Nexus. Right before the Sun Nexus had exploded, and she had seen a Startouch Elf kill her sister.

It was  _ that _ Startouch Elf too.

Janai leaped over the intervening space, stabbing at the human, who deflected her blade with the staff - Janai’s eyes widened as the staff came around again, unblemished, uncut. The elf, whose earthen sword was now swinging between his hands, came up behind her, talking as he fought. “I made that staff, Queen. Do not be surprised it can take more than a little beating.”

Janai drew her second sword and began a dual defence against the two. They both had the advantage of reach, and were able to distract her with each other’s attacks, but Janai was the only one among them who had armour. Flipping around so that Shadow’s Death was facing the Startouch elf, she beat his inferior weapon back until he stepped too close to Amaya.

With a sudden fire in her eyes, the General scrambled in front of the elf, tripping him up with the chains securing her to the wall - and Janai heard a screeching, scratchy  _ voice _ emerging from her mouth. No, not her mouth - that was tight shut, as it usually was. Her  _ throat _ .

“Impale him in the ground!”

Janai followed the command, taking the second spare sword - the first spare, she’d given to Gren, along with her tracker, ordering him to be their contingency plan - and plunging it through the elf into the ground below. Janai’s Molten form cracked the stone as she forced the blade down to the hilt, causing the elf to bellow in pain, and within the next second, Amaya’s chains were cut through.

Janai motioned for Amaya to run. Amaya nodded and spoke in that same screechy voice, which seemed to cause her discomfort, “Not fast, though.” Janai nodded and held up her Sunforged blade as Amaya began limping down the corridor and he who had once been High Mage of Katolis raised his staff against her.

Dodging the blast of paralysis, Janai vaulted up onto the ceiling, then back down again behind the Mage. Only his quick action with the staff, whipping it behind his back, saved him from being bisected by Shadow’s Death.

The two fought, staff against shining sword, as the General dragged herself away. Janai half-expected Gren to show up at any moment, which would have been the worst thing to happen - if they lost then, they lost everyone. Thankfully, the Commander understood that too, and Amaya walked alone.

Viren was beginning to tire, Janai saw with glee. His staff strikes were coming, not less frequently, but with far less precision. She stepped forward, past the slumped body of the elf, and

pain shot through her

Janai collapsed to the floor as a bolt of electricity lanced its way through her nervous system, the elf smiling, gripping her exposed heel,  _ pulling himself off the blade _ even as it reformed. Janai watched helplessly as the Mage started off after Amaya. She hadn’t seen Janai fall. She was picking up speed. Perhaps she would escape. Perhaps - 

She saw, breath catching as she beheld the fallen Queen.

She turned, her body struggling to hold in her rage.

She fought, hand against staff.

And Janai passed into unconsciousness as, inevitably, she lost.

Amaya was more securely bound now that her hands were not the only way she could speak. The grub was vibrating in her throat, voicing what she was sure were swear words - unfortunately, the worm seemed to be able to understand and translate sign language. Amaya felt its pull on her mind, taking the thoughts that emerged and yanking them out into the real world, beyond her control, beyond even what she could sense. It was a worse feeling than the legs and the terrible lump in her throat, constricting the flow of air to a trickle that meant that Amaya had to fight for every breath.

The rotworm elf raised his hand, and the slime he had existed in for days rose around him and contracted like a cloak, and spoke. He was walking in front of Amaya, so she couldn’t hear what she said. Amaya was forced to her feet by Viren, who carried the unconscious Janai on a bed of air, and together, the four marched downwards, towards the heat.

Towards something worse.

* * *

Chapter 9

Halfway across the world, in a range of mountains stretching from the Storm Spire to the icebound waters of the North, a Skywing Elf, a young dragon, and a King were flying together.

The King was cheating by sitting on the dragon, but it was still an impressive sight.

The three flew just below the cloud layer, arrow-straight and perfectly aligned. Artaxa’s parents had vouched for her flying abilities, and their praise was not unfounded - Artaxa displayed control over her wings with a natural grace that Ezran knew his brother would walk naked through the streets of Resmark to get.

He thanked the Gods for the ability he’d perfected over the years of keeping intrusive thoughts from Zym. Artaxa certainly did  _ not _ want a mental image of High Mage Callum walking through the streets of Resmark naked.

Zym flipped, Ezran holding on mostly with his knees - as he’d known to do since Zym was large enough to carry him - and Artaxa copied the move perfectly, her mind gripping into the pair’s thought-processes as she strove to emulate their movements precisely.

This was the point of the exercise - while Zym’s bond with Ezran had been forced to grow by the dire circumstances the pair had found themselves in, Artaxa wasn’t growing up in a world with perilous lava-lakes and dark mages lurking around every corner. 

So they needed to  _ simulate _ dire circumstances. Which they had decided to do with something the three of them knew inside and out. Flying.

Zym leveled out and smirked, looking around to his left to check on the elf. Absentmindedly, Artaxa also looked around, mimicking the movement, and Ezran laughed softly in his mind. He then realised that he himself had turned his head in the exact same way, and resolved to focus on flying. Or maybe that had been Zym’s thought.

Zym entered into a complicated series of twists and turns, corkscrewing through the air then zig-zagging using mighty beats of his sail-sized wings then diving towards the ground and back up again. Artaxa gritted her teeth and accomplished exactly the same things, mirroring Zym’s wing shapes, body posture and even hand positions - forcing herself to do what the dragon did, then, all of a sudden… not forcing herself. Simply flowing into the movements, allowing herself to be swept up in the great dragon’s current, entrusting Zym with her own dance against death in the warm spring air.

Ezran, for his part, simply waited until Zym told him to, then slid off the dragon’s back.

Artaxa was in the middle of a simple sequence, what she called a tuck-flip - rolling over in midair while you tucked your wings in close to trade altitude for speed - when she felt a surge of panic from the other two.

Artaxa’s wings seized up as Ezran’s terror translated into Azymondias’ freezing, which translated in turn into her helplessness as the great dragon, a consciousness vast and unknowable, simply stopped working in fright. The three plunged towards the Earth, tumbling over and over in three chaotic, uneven sequences that threatened to tip the balance of the world.

But inside, Artaxa’s mind was anything but chaotic.

Frozen by Azymondias’ seeming icy fear, Artaxa herself pushed past her own, using her innate daring aspects that had come from years of falling and catching herself, rising to the heights of mountains and then tucking in her wings and seeing  _ just how fast _ she could go. And she fought back.

Tendrils of Artaxa’s mind lashed onto that of Azymondias, stripping away the fear that came from the human falling beside him, reminding him that  _ he was a dragon _ , a creature powerful enough to tear the very mountains asunder, and… controlling him?

Artaxa realised now that she was not going with Azymondias’ flow, following his instructions, but instead issuing instructions of her own, crafting networks, relaying orders - 

Controlling two bodies.

Artaxa and Azymondias, acting together, spun down towards the tumbling figure of Ezran. Artaxa and Azymondias together narrowed their eyes and focused them against the rushing wind to find their prey. Artaxa and Azymondias together extended their hand - or was it a claw? - to find the King of Katolis, to grab him, and to pull up, coming to a vertical halt half a kilometre in the air.

And the fear was gone. 

Ezran laughed as Azymondias threw him up, to catch him on his neck, the King settling down in his old spot like nothing had happened. Maybe it was Artaxa’s own relief, but the two seemed unperturbed by the fact that she had just…

saved the two?

Then Ezran’s voice came into her mind.  _ Good work, Artaxa. You’re showing great progress, Zym tells me. _

Azymondias - Artaxa still felt a little uncomfortable calling him Zym, even though he was as close to the same person as Artaxa could get - joined in.  _ It was brilliant. We were expecting some shaky connection, but you pulled through with a damn near perfect one! _

_ I don’t understand, _ Artaxa thought, projecting her confusion, and mounting apprehension.  _ Was that… _

_ A test, _ Ezran said.  _ You passed with flying colours - no pun intended. _

Artaxa was aghast.  _ I thought you might die! _

_ And you will think so again, _ Azymondias replied.  _ But in the future, you might be correct. In that moment, the ability to overcome your fears as you did today and help us will be the best ability you could possibly have. _

_ The world we live in isn’t perfect, Artaxa, _ Ezran continued. _ We have to fight to make it so - and now, bound to a King and a future King, that ‘we’ includes you, too. We have to be strong in every conceivable manner - for if we are not, the forces of evil will find our weak points. _

Artaxa thought as they flew.  _ Am I… a weak point? _

A brief flurry of communication flew between Ezran and Azymondias, with Ezran responding after a second.

_ You know your strength. And now, so do we. _

* * *

Chapter 10

The dark mages had chosen to move, apparently, somewhere closer to the lava layer. All Sunfire mines had one - an access point to some form of volcano, often crafted itself by Sunfire mages, used to smelt and refine their ores and to power the magics that went into their weapons, armour and shields. Scattered on the floor were obsidian shards, surrounding the occasional horned skeleton, with one spire of volcanic glass rising in the centre. Apparently, the dark mages had first tested and perfected their methods here.

Janai awoke chained to the spire. Instinctively, she tried to move away from it, but only succeeded in cutting herself on the glass, and settled for existing in a form of equilibrium with it, hanging off the glass. It was uncomfortable, but Janai accepted it. Amaya was chained to the wall opposite, head bowed, armour scratched and dented, several small cuts on the back of her left hand but otherwise no outward sign of injury, beyond the obvious weakness in her limbs. What had  _ caused  _ that?

Janai was broken from her inquisitive musings by their two captors, who seemed to be taking an interest in her. As she watched, craning her neck, they had a whispered conversation, broken by Viren picking up a piece of obsidian and studying it, then smiling.

Ice water ran down Janai’s nervous system at the smile.

“ _ I wish she were a Moonshadow elf. I like using that spell, and I always have a few spare coins on me. _ ”

“ _ What spell? _ ”

“ _ You know. Soul-trapping. I feel that the General’s memory line might unravel itself if we were to somehow -  _ “

“ _ An interesting proposal, Viren. _ ” Aaravos looked down at the floor, smiling. “ _ And possibly feasible. _ ”

“ _ What? I thought only Moonshadow elves could -  _ “

“ _ Only Moonshadow elves can be imprisoned in  _ coins _ , Viren. Actually, anything with a Moon arcanum. But any magical creature can be… soul-trapped. _ ” Aaravos chuckled. “ _ Sorry, I have a different name for it. The substance is different for each arcanum - Moon is any metal, Star is any gemstone, Earth is any carbon-based material, Sky is any conductor, Ocean is anything suitably eroded or rusted… and Sun is any form of volcanic mineral.” _

Viren looked around at the obsidian shards littering the ground around them. “ _ Like… this? _ ”

Aaravos smiled. “ _ Precisely. _ ”

The tableau unfolded spectacularly. The two captives existed first in puzzlement, then, as Viren spoke the enchantment for the first time, Janai’s expression turned to pained rage as her  _ magmalar _ flared up - a potent, but ultimately futile gesture. The staff’s power was far too strong for any one elf. Viren stood, lit up in triumph and power, revelling in the sensation, while Amaya moved swiftly from confused to shocked to horrified as the Sunfire Queen disappeared from the shackles, letting them fall back onto the central obsidian pillar with a satisfying crash. Viren’s eyes bled to black as he looked satisfied at the obsidian, a tiny image of Janai helplessly trapped inside. She could see out, be seen, but although she could hear, she couldn’t speak.

The mechanisms of  _ korkyra _ were such that any soul would be battered down into suspended animation. They needed the hope drained from them, the ridiculous lie that they told themselves -  _ I will get out of here - _ excised from their mind. Then the darkness would overtake them, and they would slumber for all eternity, in packaged format, every aspect of their arcanum ready for use.

Apparently,  _ korkyra _ had been used by the dark mages merely to craft keepsakes, not for its true use - but Aaravos didn’t really mind. It was an imperfect method of packaging, requiring a powerful relic and the immobility of both mage and victim throughout the process.

Now, it had use far beyond that.

Amaya watched, unable to move, as Viren showed her the reflection in the obsidian shard, and then moved away, tossing it to himself. She let out a silent scream of rage, for all the good it would do to her.

Viren turned to her, moving his mouth clearly. “Tell us everything you know, or…” He held the obsidian out over the lava. Amaya scowled, a battle raging in her mind, but eventually, a clear answer came to her.

_ Janai wouldn’t want me to. _

Amaya shook her head, unwittingly thinking of the most ridiculous thing they’d asked about - the Percador’s dog.

And the grub seized upon that information and  _ pulled. _

Amaya shuddered in terror as the complex, interweaving series of mnemonics that the two mages had set up over the past two days unravelled itself, like a spider's web caught by a passing hand. Yes, there were trivial things, things everyone knew, but they pulled with them all the sensitive information, importance seemingly welded to unimportance.

Amaya tried to cough the grub out, swallow it, but it dug its claws into the sides of Amaya’s throat and kept pulling, her head slamming back against the wall in pain and revulsion. Viren smiled as he tucked the obsidian shard away and Aaravos began making notes.

When the grub had finished, Aaravos held Amaya’s mouth open and the grub scuttled out, leaving Amaya coughing blood. Extending his hand, he unravelled it into a portal, leading… somewhere underground. Amaya could see dark rock on the other side.

Viren studied the shard, then pressed it into Amaya’s hand, smiling as he did so. Amaya tried and succeeded in broadcasting her utter hatred into her face. Viren paused at the portal, turning around and signing a series of words with his cold, stone-grey hands.

_ She heard everything you said. _

Then Viren left through the portal, and Amaya was left alone with a million shards of obsidian, all reviled for what they had done to her Sunfire Queen.


	4. Lands Beyond Sight

Episode 4: Lands Beyond Sight

* * *

_ One of the many reasons for fiction is escapism - entering an unknown world to flee the burdens of our own - and this, I believe, reveals one of the great truths of human nature. _

_ We are deeply afraid of the unknown. Even when the unknown is perfectly benign - a new food, a new home, a new culture - we are nonetheless frightened by it. We shy away, we attempt to experience it only in pieces to assure ourselves that it is safe, we try to insulate ourselves from what, deep down, despite all logic, we believe to be harmful. _

_ Fiction is a way to fight that. _

_ Fiction exposes us to a world that, despite everything we see, we know we are safe in. A book cannot hurt us, nor a play injure us. Fiction allows us to explore unhindered by terror, to worlds far and wide, diverse and wonderful, great and terrible. _

_ And so fiction trains us in the real world to explore, to embrace the unknown and to find the best in all that we can, forging the world into something more known, more complete, and more adventurous. _

  * King Ezran of Katolis, _On Life and Death,_ 18 RZ



* * *

Chapter 1

_ Seventeen years ago _

Rayla’s eyes snapped open, and she pinched her sleeping husband awake. A mixture of pride and awe accompanied that word as she used it on Callum, momentarily breaking through the adrenaline before being subsumed once more by the thrill of what she knew would be a fight.

The fog of war had come, silent as its namesake but swift as lightning.

Rayla kicked off the sheets and grabbed her slipswords off the nightstand even as Callum struggled to awaken himself. A shaky runeset briefly glowed and then broke up above his horizontal form, highlighting his bare chest - Callum cursed and redrew the silvery strikes, allowing the magic to infuse his being. Instantly alert, he rose into a cross-legged position and flipped up to a crouch on the edge of the bed, looking for all the world like a particularly attractive gargoyle. That ability to snap awake at any hour of the night was magic which was, for the most part, inbuilt into Moonshadow bodies, but Callum had to simulate it by wiggling his fingers.

The whisper came as Callum slipped off the bed, raising his hands. “ _ Where’s the threat? _ ”

Rayla was still trying to figure it out herself when a lancing bolt of green energy radiated from the door, only just blocked by her swords.

Rayla flipped up, holding herself on the ceiling as Callum instantly sent a bolt of lightning beneath her towards the source of the bolt. A brief scream echoed and then fell to silence.

A smoking body slumped through the doorway - the corpse of a servant. Callum and Rayla were briefly distracted by horror as they looked downwards, and that was all the dark mage required.

Emerald smoke filled the room. Callum whipped up a whirlwind to try and disperse it, but the wind somehow  _ meshed _ with the smoke and cast it into confusing patterns that left the partners disoriented. Rayla dove towards Callum, knocking him out of the way of another blast of green energy that, thankfully, seemed to disperse some of the smoke.

Callum broke his whirlwind and the smoke crystallised, then fell, coating their bedroom and themselves in a fine layer of dust. Rayla wiped the dark green crystals away from her eyes and leaped towards the assailant over an upturned bookshelf. The mage pulled out a bug and crushed it, sending a wall of flame closely followed by a shockwave through the building. To anyone not moving as fast as Rayla - and wearing so little clothing - that fire would have been a bit of a problem. As it was, only the shockwave posed an issue, flinging her back behind Callum and crashing into the burning bed, lightly searing her legs before she flipped back upwards, growling.

Rayla dodged blast after blast as the mage attempted to take her out while Callum was incapacitated inside the swirling ball of fire he’d crafted at the last second. That fire had to die down before her husband could do anything, and that would take time. Time which Rayla could use to kill the mage. Again, the hand came up, with a different bug this time, again as Rayla was about to leap. She twisted in midair, then blessedly slammed against an energy barrier.

A shield. Something that wasn’t trying to kill her. Brilliant.

Rayla shouted to Callum not to worry about her and moved behind the mage, perfectly mimicking his movements so that she was perfectly shielded by the man. Callum nodded and began slinging spells, the mage barely able to handle double swords on one side and magic on the other. Desperately scrambling towards Callum, trying to counterattack, the sorcerer sent an energy blast at Rayla’s sky just as he crafted a moonbeam - 

The shafts of light locked onto each other and created something  _ new _ . The last thing Rayla remembered was Callum, eyes locked onto his hands as he constructed an energy shield and yelled at Rayla to get behind something.

Rayla had been moved to the infirmary, where she remained, her left arm and side suffering burns from whatever that unholy combination of Primal and dark magic had been. She lay on a small cot, wheezing from the minor damage to her lungs, while Callum sat beside her, holding her hand. Sun spells were all very well and good, until you tried to heal burns - High Mage Keyrdon, brother of the Queen, had spouted some nonsense about the will of the dragons before admitting to Callum that no, they did not know why burns resisted healing, though there were theories.

Ezran strode in, expression ashen, and Rayla turned to face him. She’d been awake for the past few hours, but she’d preferred not to speak, apart from what was necessary. Still, she managed to croak out an “I’m fine” as Ezran opened his mouth.

“Evidently not,” Ezran responded as Rayla winced from the words.

“Okay, I  _ will  _ be fine.” Callum smiled wearily and squeezed her hand. “Apparently,” Rayla continued, “I’ve had more sleep than this idiot.”

“Forgive a man his irrationalities, you only woke up three hours ago.”

“Well, you could’ve gone to sleep then.”

“But then I had you to talk to.”

“Ah, old Elendil’s Tears.”

“What?”

“Moonshadow thing.”

Ezran cleared his throat and the two sheepishly realised he was there. “I assume you’re in no fit state to travel, Rayla.”

“Won’t be for two weeks.”

Ezran laced his fingers, looking downwards. This needed to be said, but necessary had meant easy for perhaps three percent of his time as king. “Callum…”

“Is needed at the front.” Callum stood up, Rayla’s hand following. “We’ve talked about this, and we’ve… reached a decision.”

Ezran let out a sigh of relief. “So, you’ll go immediately, and then when you’re healed, you’ll - “

Rayla shook her head. “I’m going to a different area of the front.”

Ezran’s body froze in place, his face suddenly etched with even greater concern than it had been before. Callum supplied the explanation.

“Last, night, Ez, my worst fears were realised. Dark and primal magics combine, create worse things, just as the ancient texts predicted. When two mages fight, everyone within twenty metres loses. And I don’t want Rayla to be in that position when a dark mage decides to show up.”

“General Amaya and I are switching places. I’ll take over the South when I’m good to fight, and she’ll move North to help Callum.” Rayla gave a reassuring squish back, then let her hand fall, grinning jokingly. “Go forth, deadly sky. Bring honour to our name like the ancient heroes.”

“As I know you will, silent night.” Callum leaned down and kissed his wife on the head, then was pulled down for a longer kiss on the lips. Ezran watched as his brother strode out of the infirmary, head held high, four eyes fixed on him.

“Manus, pluma, volantis!” The wings didn’t come.

_ You’re doing the wrong thing. _

“Manus, pluma, volantis!” He tried to silence the thoughts, focusing on the magic.

_ How could you leave the love of your life in times like this? _

“Manus, pluma, volantis!” Callum practically shouted the words now, voice cracking.

_ Will this be the nature of you? Endlessly leaving, never standing to fight, never -  _

“Enough!” Callum spoke aloud, heedless who heard. “I am protecting the people I love. There is no higher connection than that. Cease your destructive talk and let us fly.”

The voice inside his head quieted, remained still. Cowed, for the moment. But it was only a symptom of a deeper problem, and even though he completed the spell, Callum felt his Sky arcanum ebbing as he flew away from Resmark.

* * *

Chapter 2

Katolis airspace always came with a subtle shift to Callum, and had done so since he’d learned the Sun arcanum. Sun was focused on energy, and how that energy interacted with the world, and so with Sun magic, Callum could feel the smudge of different arcana - far less precisely than the Key of Aaravos could, but as a gut feeling that had proven useful in hundreds of situations.

Katolis had a subtle but noticeable drop in magic.

Artorc didn’t feel the shift, not having the Sun arcanum, but even if he had had it, the old elf was too busy hanging on in varying degrees of terror and motion sickness to notice anything. Callum had noted sixteen separate occasions upon which Artorc had sworn never to fly again.

Despite the shift in magical pressure that always saddened Callum a little, Katolis was as beautiful as Xadia ever was, if in a different manner. It was as if a master artist had been assigned to paint the world, but had realised he was using too many vibrant colours halfway through - the more subtle contrasts, the lessening of scale, the graduality of the landscape punctuated with wonder rather than filled with it, was not uglier than Xadia but rather differently beautiful. The dual sights of the Human Kingdoms and Xadia from above were proof positive to Callum that, although magic was a glorious, powerful force, those without it still had immense value.

Perhaps that was why Skywing Elves often seemed to look upon humans the most favourably - although Callum also conceded that Sky magic was deeply interwoven with connection, and he felt his Sky arcanum thrumming along with his joy as, with every beat of his wings, he grew closer to Resmark.

It was only mildly tempered by Artorc throwing up again.

Rayla was standing at the crash site before either of the two mages got up, hands on hips. The faceless Moonshadow elf - Rayla vaguely recognised the robes as belonging to one of the Mages, and the body was unmistakably male - stumbled off to the crenels of the tower wall, where a stream of vomit cascaded from the blank slate of his head down into the bushes below.

Callum dismissed his wings and put an arm around her shoulder, pulling her in close as they both looked on in morbid fascination. 

“Quite the sight.” Callum smiled wearily.

“Trust me, it looks worse from here. Why’d you bring him in the first place?”

“Some… very complicated things have cropped up.” Callum sat down and pulled out a sheet of paper, laying it on the most evenly-placed stone he could find.

By the time the explanation was over, Artorc had gone through two stages of recovering from motion sickness - retching the last of what he’d eaten for breakfast over the side, and then lying on the floor moaning. Rayla leaned back at various levels of shock, relief and confusion. “So… he’s…”

“I’m not sure.  _ He’s _ not sure. None of us are sure. But what we do know is that we have two problems.”

“One, my parents are currently encased in metal, and two, I’m invisible.” Rayla sensed that Callum was about to beat around the bush. It was something that had never worked for her in the past, although Callum seemed attached to the tactic.

As she spoke, the full import of what she’d said echoed through Rayla’s mind. Her ghosting was a  _ problem _ . For twenty years, she’d been cut off from her people with little hope of ever being reconciled, their rebuffs against all reasoned argument inexplicable yet insurmountable - but now, there was something they could  _ fight _ . Something tangible, something if not evil then outdated, from a bygone age and deserving of destruction. The vestiges of guilt she’d felt since that fateful night had finally shed themselves in their entirety. They were in her past.

And her future started with the elf struggling to his feet before her, oblivious to her presence.

Artorc sat among moonstone pillars, kneeling with a heretic mage and a banished assassin.

The book lay open before him - Callum’s spellbook. He’d been told by other mages that Callum didn’t actually require it himself, relying on his memory to store his vast arcane knowledge - possibly even surpassing Artorc’s own, though far less specialised - but the runes within were sigils that any mage worth their  _ rothalas _ could use to shape their own spells, and from a teaching standpoint, this spellbook was extraordinarily valuable.

Artorc raised his hands, drawing the first rune into the air. It was an extremely complicated spell, and would require several of these - though Artorc felt he could optimise the casting.

A shimmering veil exploded outwards from the centre of the circle, fuelled by the moonstone, and an elf flashed into sight before Artorc. His eyes widened in shock. No longer was this the headstrong yet uncertain and unblooded young elf he’d seen off on a mission that would cause more harm than good - kneeling beside him was a diplomat, a mother and a deadly assassin, trained to kill both on and off the battlefield.

Here, he was convinced, was one of the most impressive Moonshadow elves he’d ever had a first impression of. A jolt of guilt racked through his mind as he speculated -  _ what could she have been, had she remained? _ \- but he quickly shoved it off. This was time for magic, not for conjecture.

Weaving several of Callum’s less-potent runesets into three greater ones - this time appraising the techniques Callum was using with appreciation, realising the ingenious manner in which he was using the ghost’s arcanum to draw energy in the same manner as his own - Artorc stabbed his fist into the centre of the circle, tearing at the veil with invisible hands, pulling it over the circle and finally

adding power to the masterfully crafted runic circle beneath them.

The room plunged into darkness.

* * *

Chapter 3

The endless, steady tick of water upon stone was the only thing keeping Amaya awake at this point. That, and the sharp pain as the obsidian shard in her hand cut into her palm.

It hurt like shrapnel, something Amaya had only ever had the dubious pleasure of experiencing once before when a dark magic device had blown out a stained-glass window in front of her, but she bore it proudly. She knew not why. Perhaps she was trying to prove that she was still honourable, still worthy of the small victories she could take. 

With every tap of water upon stone, Amaya’s right hand twitched. Katolis Sign Language had a complex counting system that utilised a system only composed of ones and zeroes, and with this system, Amaya could count up to - 

Amaya reached 65536 and stopped. How long was that? If she estimated the drops to be one second apart… she’d spent over eighteen hours awake in here. She pleaded with herself to be allowed just one more hour of wakefulness, even as her battered body made a covert deal with the universe to gently fall asleep. 

She  _ could not _ fall asleep. The ground was littered with obsidian. If she were to somehow drop Janai - 

Her grip tightened on the stone - Amaya’s vision blurred, and she felt something hot and wet squeeze between her fingers. She relented. It wasn’t a matter of not falling asleep. It was simply a matter of keeping Janai safe.

Amaya nodded off, holding the shard tightly. The vice-like grip only grew stronger as her will to stay awake grew weaker, and eventually, Amaya slumped over in her chains, left fist clenched. Dark red began to drip from the hand to pool in the dust below.

Every breath was agony, the sky filtered through obsidian and Janai’s body fettered with unseen shackles.

The sky stretched above her, far away as the stars of the dark night and right in front of her face at the same time. If she wasn’t careful, if she didn’t lean back, she would touch the glass, the edge of her world, the aftermath of the cataclysm that she was now a part of.

Perhaps she  _ could _ touch it now. She knew where she was - knew that the only magics that could save her were star magic and dark magic. An art long-forgotten, and one practised only by those vile enough to create these prisons in the first place. She would stay awake until she lost her hope - and even now, the black desert of the interior of the obsidian shard ground away at her mind, sending waves of pain through her dream-body - and then sleep for all eternity, as if dead. Perhaps now, in what was as close to death as could be, she could find solidarity by those whose lives had also been stripped away by the darkness.

Janai relaxed her back and leaned on the glass. Peering through it, trying to get closer - a futile gesture, her legs were buried beneath the sand - she saw towering, curling, red-white behemoths, and beyond them, a glimpse of the cavern outside.

Torchlight.

Janai’s  _ magmalar _ flared - she took the same form in here as she had left on the outside - and she beat off the next wave of pain as she glimpsed shadows on the walls. Those helmets were unmistakably Sunfire in origin. Was that - 

The voice of Commander Gren brought spectral tears to Janai’s eyes as he barked orders at the Sunfire Elves under his command, telling them to break Amaya’s shackles and to get a stretcher for the General. As Janai tried to get a glimpse of the outside world, Gren came over and, puzzled, reached for the very hand Janai was trapped in. Gren began to pull, trying to work the hand away from its prize, but when a spray of blood hit Gren in the hand, his eyes widened and he carefully put it back where it belonged. It didn’t matter to Janai.

Amaya had been found. Amaya was going to be alright. Janai’s vigil was complete.

Janai bowed her head and surrendered the last of her hope.

Amaya’s eyes flickered open as sunlight streamed in through the white canvas of the small infirmary, which already had three other occupants as Company T dealt with the many dangers of the Valrion Wastes. Gren sat on the cot opposite, playing with a small puzzle cube.

“General,” Gren said gently, putting aside the cube for now, “I’m… sorry, but we’ve searched the caverns for two days. There’s no sign of Janai.”

The General turned her face towards Gren, which shocked him - he’d never before seen the General’s eyes so bereft of purpose, so lost - and then opened her left hand, which shocked him further.

The hand was encrusted in dried blood. As Amaya - with effort - opened it, new cuts sprang to life, making the General wince. Inside was the reason that the Sunfire Elves’ best surgeons hadn’t been able to open the hand while she was asleep.

The obsidian shard depicted a sleeping Queen Janai, in perfect, three-dimensional detail, fully armoured,  _ magmalar _ shining.

Amaya offered the shard, and Gren took it, studying the sleeping figure of the Queen. “I’ve seen this before. Once before.”

Amaya weakly signed,  _ What is your assessment? _

Gren stopped pacing. “We need our mage.”

_ Then that’s an order, Commander. _ Gren nodded, then ran off to find Company T’s messenger. Time to give that damn pretentious prick some actually useful work to do.

* * *

Chapter 4

The crack of Zubeia’s wings sounded over Lux Aurea five times before she landed, and this time, it was Amaya who slid off, hand bandaged but well on the way to recovery due to the efforts of the Sunfire healers, carrying a pouch in which the last living spark of her wife resided.

Once again fully armoured - it was a custom that threw the elves off and (she remembered with a smile that felt hollow) had thrown the humans off when she’d started doing it, but she found solace in her armour - Amaya strode off the landing platform and was immediately met by High Mage Floreion, travelling with his customary entourage. Amaya found comfort in steel - Floreion found in followers.

“General Amaya. I don’t know what I can offer you in these times, but what I can, I will. I am deeply sorry for what’s happened to you.”

Amaya eyed him, then identified a young elf among the followers, standing apart from them. Kazi was a welcome addition to any Sunfire delegation, and she beckoned them to the front of the group. As Amaya signed, Kazi translated - Amaya called up a picture of them twenty-two years ago and felt a hint of pride at how confident they’d become. Sunfire elves never changed fast.

Lux Aurea always brought out the best in Amaya, she reflected. It had a curious irreverence for when one was supposed to be heartbroken.

_ It would be hypocritical of me to take the pity reserved for casualties of war - I’ve caused a few in my time. What I hope is that we may be spared one more. _ She held up the pouch, watching Floreion closely. Amaya’s eyes had once been said to strip people to the bone, which had been followed with some extremely salacious flirting, given it had been Janai who said it.

Floreion backed away, hesitating, then chose sincerity over policy. Amaya internally nodded. Floreion was a grandmaster of politics, but he did seem to have the best interests of others at heart - although that might have just been part of his disguise.

“I apologise, General, but I’m afraid that’s impossible. The magic of today can’t fulfil the requirements needed to simultaneously craft a vessel and manipulate the soul.”

Amaya slung the pouch over her arm to free up her right hand.  _ Which is why I sent a Shadowhawk to King Ezran, requesting the services of the mage who has, until now, consistently crafted the magic of tomorrow. _

Floreion paused, trying to hide his annoyance behind a mask of serene certainty. “I believe this is beyond even him - but, of course, we will permit him to handle the prison. In Lux Aurea.”

Amaya nodded - Callum would protest, but that was politics, and she didn’t care for it.

“How long will that Shadowhawk take to reach Ezran?”

Amaya raised an eyebrow at the non-sequitur.  _ Around six hours, give or take. Why? _

“Because,” Floreion said, already beginning to walk off but remaining turned towards Amaya, “we have two people in the city who can get a message to him instantly.”

Azymondias and Artaxa stood beneath the open sky and together reached out through the connections in the world to hook onto Ezran’s consciousness and bring him into Zym’s body. Ezran’s consciousness, understanding flaring to life like a firework in the night sky, flashed through the minds of the pair, before Ezran began pulling back and the meld began.

Artaxa vaguely felt Ezran lying on a bed of soft grass next to a confused but docile horse. The king had left the dragon and the elf to get back to Katolis - the Pentarchy would have their annual meeting in two days, and Ezran was always the punctual one.

_ Zym? _

Azymondias responded.  _ Where are you? _

_ Nearly back in Katolis. Is something wrong with the Sunfire elves?  _ Artaxa felt a sympathetic pressure as King Ezran looked through Azymondias’ eyes at the assembled elves and the Queen Consort, waiting gravely for Ezran’s answer.

_ A problem of a magical nature. I’m afraid we’re simply being used as messengers between Floreion and Callum. Viren and the Startouch mage have returned and… disposed of the Sunfire Queen. She’s still alive, _ Azymondias added hastily as dark thoughts of necromancy came bubbling to Ezran’s surface, _ but Viren soul-trapped her. _

_ I don’t know what soul-trapping means. _ Artaxa’s mind flitted between the two. She was of the age now that she could look down upon those who tried unsuccessfully to talk to people who didn’t want them in their conversations, but now she felt like one.

_ What’s important is that it’s a barbarous act, but that it leaves its victim… alive. To an extent. _

Azymondias’ eyes narrowed of their own accord as Ezran thought.  _ Will Callum know what it is? _

_ High Mage Floreion said it was probable. The elves wish for Callum to enter Lux Aurea as soon as possible to begin his experimentation. _

Ezran’s mindform nodded. It was a strange experience, almost like the three were nodding at once without any muscular movement, but Artaxa’s and Azymondias’ motion was but a shadow of Ezran’s.  _ Then I shall ride for Katolis Castle with all due haste. _

Artaxa caught a glimpse of other riders around Ezran, clad in black and white, as he leapt up onto his horse again, and then the meld ended and there was silence.

Azymondias turned one great eye towards Artaxa.  _ I apologise, Artaxa. There wasn’t much for you to do. _

Artaxa shrugged.  _ I know. You guys need to do adult things. _

Azymondias smiled.  _ You have a vital role too, you know. Simply listening is going to make you wiser, more able to act on your knowledge. One of the greatest things about this relationship is that Ezran and I can disagree with each other, and you are someone who can disagree with both of us. _

_ But I don’t know anything about being a king, or a dragon, or a diplomat! How can I -  _

_ You learn. You act. You make mistakes - you learn from them, too. You have potential, Artaxa. Transform it into power. _

Artaxa, on a whim, opened her mouth. “Message received. The King is on his way.” 

A wash of approval warmed Artaxa’s soul.

* * *

Chapter 5

Soren had greeted a somewhat disheveled but high-spirited King Ezran at the border, talking rapidly about what had transpired over the last few days. From what Soren had gleaned (briefly), the new member of the bond, whose name was Artaxa (Soren didn’t quite catch the race, although Artaxa sounded distinctly Skywing), was surpassing all of their expectations. As they rode back, the conversation had shifted to the Crownguard’s training (Ruk was apparently still experiencing aches and pains in his shoulder) and, eventually, the entire Crownguard had gotten into a spirited conversation about how best to attack a castle, slaughtering everyone inside, given seven Moonshadow elves. The first day had been uneventful, but reasonably interesting.

The second day, of course, had been considerably more interesting, and now the Crownguard raced after the King at a gallop as the King in turn coordinated the horses to most effectively run.

“Vash! Get into Kadal’s slipstream! Watch those potholes!” the King shouted as the horses practically doubled their speed over the road, Katolis Castle rising over the hills and gleaming in the mid-morning Sun. With Ezran’s advice, the horses’ necks had only just begun to foam by the time they trotted through the gates and into the castle courtyard.

Ezran had assigned Terio as keeper of his horse during the mad rush, and the young Crownguard dutifully took it while Avrain took Soren’s. As the younger Crownguard walked the horses over to the stables, Ezran opened a secret doorway in the stairs by tapping a brick and Soren dutifully followed, resolving to remember about this one for next time but fatalistically reflecting that he probably wouldn’t.

The two marched through underground corridors, Soren’s armoured boots tapping on the floor as Ezran’s softer ones padded. Soren looked his King over as they descended down a flight of stairs. Though he had always preferred actual steel armour, there was something awfully appealing about the thin copper lines Callum had sewn into Ezran’s clothing, ready to transform into shimmering, weightless energy barriers if necessary.

The two reached the bottom, passing the plaque (which Soren had never bothered to read) and tapping the combination in together. The two stepped down, and were hit by a wall of intense concentration.

It was as if all the palpable tension in a two hundred mile radius had been drawn from the environment and been placed into the study. The tunnels under Katolis Castle always came with an increase in the intensity of cold - Soren always felt that - and this was precisely the same, only an increase in the intensity of the intensity.

Never before had he seen three people look at a drop of water with such focus.

The drop fell off Callum’s sluicing rod and into the small device sitting on the table, seven coins surrounding it. As the drop hit, the device spun up, emitting a sickly green glow and emitting a bright flash maybe once every three seconds. As Soren watched, the flash sped up, then sped up again, then became a glow of its own, except now the coins each had a Moonshadow elf standing before them, constructed out of the same light. The device seemed to be shining light  _ through _ the coins.

“Yes!” The old Moonshadow elf - Artorc, someone Soren could have sworn had less-than-optimal relations with Callum - punched a fist in the air, another thing Soren decided was distinctly unlike him. “It works!”

“What works?” Ezran asked, and three surprised pairs of eyes swivelled to view the pair. Callum and Rayla immediately knelt, while Artorc bowed.

Ezran sighed. “Rise, brother, sister-in-law, mage once removed, and tell me what you’re spending the King’s tax on.”

* * *

Chapter 6

“The Sunfire elves say  _ what? _ ”

Ezran shook his head. “Zym said you’d protest. Please consider it, Callum. Lux Aurea has some of the best libraries in the known world, far superior to Resmark’s, and it has the Sun Nexus, for Forzana’s sake. What does this musty dark study have that the Golden City doesn’t?”

“Moonstone pillars, magical tinkering tools, good airflow, ritual circles, nearly every magical tome from the Moon Nexus library.” At an annoyed glance from Artorc, Callum added, “Lujanne didn’t need the things, so she let me take them.” He turned back to Ezran. “The list goes on.”

“You know what Lux Aurea has that this study doesn’t?”

Callum shrugged. “The Sun Nexus?”

“The Sunfire Queen.”

Callum’s shoulders sagged, provoking a wry smile from Rayla as she watched the proceedings. “I’m not going to win this one, am I?”

Rayla sauntered up beside her husband. “I’ve been called to Lux Aurea myself, as I believe you know,” she tilted her head towards Ezran, who nodded enthusiastically, “so if we take Oscar, we can make this a family thing.”

“Rayla, are you actively trying to undermine me?”

“Maybe I’m just acting in my best interests.”

Callum sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in an expression that he’d purposefully formed a habit of making five years ago. “Right, fine. I’ll do what the elves ask. I’ll want full access to both the libraries and the Nexus, if required. And Artorc.”

“The Sunfire elves have agreed to give you whatever you think might be able to help.”

“And I go wherever those coins go,” Artorc supplied. “Working at the cutting-edge of experimental magic is what I’ve been doing for the past twelve years, and it’s a pleasure working at the bleeding-edge. Plus, you know, saving people’s lives. Always a perk.”

Callum picked up the small device. “This is something he drew up the plans for a few hours ago. It projects the blueprint portion of the soul-trap into realspace, so an Earth magic lattice could technically be used to grow a new body, ready for imprinting.”

Ezran and Soren stared at him with blank eyes. Callum gave up.

“Don’t worry about it.” Callum turned to Rayla and Artorc. “I’ll fly. I suppose neither of you want to - “

“Where are the stables?” Artorc turned to Rayla. She pointed down a corridor, which Artorc happily rushed down, then kissed Callum quickly. “Safe travels, sky.”

Rayla walked over in a prim fashion, then jumped up through the stairwell to land on the centrepiece. She’d find Oscar, then head directly to the stables. If there was one thing that she and Callum had learned from sixteen years of marriage, it was that neither the royal nor the semi-not-really-royal family believed in packing.

The halls of the Pentarchy rose over the hills just as the Sun rose above the clouds, forcing Ezran to shade his eyes as he looked upon the bastion of solidarity that had held the Kingdoms together for hundreds of years and hopefully would serve for hundreds more.

Zym slammed down beside the Gate of All Nations. He had insisted on helping Ezran get there and back, damn what people thought. Ezran slid off and watched happily as Zym settled down for a well-deserved rest in the grass. 

Walking over to the checkpoint, Ezran unbuckled his sword, passing it to the guards with a nod and a “Hey Urven, how’s the kid?”, which in hindsight was probably not the best way to tell Urven his wife had just given birth. Ezran left Urven standing immobile with a somewhat dazed smile as his compatriots clapped him on the back, and strode into the entrance hall, telling Burin to run into the main centre if there was trouble.

As he sat on his seat in the Panarchon, the dome-like edifice that used to compose the entire structure, three rulers looked back at him, and as he waited, the last confidently marched in and sat. Queen Aanya stared imperiously around the room with her customary playful grin.

“First order of business,” Ezran said, “is to welcome the new King of Del Bar. King Vretan, we are sorry to hear of the loss of your mother, and we hope that our ties with Del Bar will remain strong through this period of change.”

Vretan shifted in his seat. Only four years Ezran’s junior, and yet he seemed a child. “Thank you, King Ezran. I’m afraid that some policies have been reviewed, and they’re heavily out-of-date, but for the most part, the agreements that have held us together will be renewed without question.”

And thus, the summit of the Pentarchy began.

“And now, on the matter of border policy.” Queen Fareeda, the eldest in the room and unofficial arbiter over the proceedings, spoke. “I believe that only Evenere had integrated border policy with Del Bar until this point. Is that likely to change?”

“My advisors and I hope to tighten Del Barian border security in light of the recent events in Xadia. If the Dark Insurgency spearheaded an operation that incapacitated the Sunfire Queen, they are not to be trifled with. This is especially important on the long sea border with Katolis.” Vretan handed a large, thick paper cylinder over to a servant, who passed it in turn to Ezran. The King nodded and placed it beside his throne, returning his cold gaze to the rest of the room. 

Since he’d bonded with the Dragon Prince, Aanya reflected, Ezran had grown… strange. Not cold, nor distant, but as if he were out of sync with his mood. He often seemed unable to comprehend when he should be welcoming, or suspicious, or hostile - but his mood always seemed right in hindsight. Aanya had heard rumours that he could read minds - Ezran himself said that it was more a general sense of mood that he could focus further, but preferred not to. It was apparently a potent diplomatic tool, but it did make it somewhat difficult to hold an ordinary conversation with him.

“Queen Aanya?” King Erzifor of Neolandia spoke a little louder, and Aanya jolted back out of her reverie, before turning her gaze to King Vretan and attempting, very well, to copy the stare Ezran was giving to everyone. Vretan returned the favour, giving a reasonable performance for a newcomer. “It has been brought to my attention that our relationship in terms of grain trade was created in a time when your country was in a famine, and then never changed. I apologise, but Del Bar feels that this needs to be remedied.”

Aanya started in surprise. Nothing had been  _ brought to Vretan’s attention _ , that she knew - the advisors who’d missed the trade agreements for twenty years hadn’t vanished with Queen Astrava. Vretan had figured it out himself. Aanya returned the customary amount of diplomatic shot as she reassessed the man. New to the kingship he might be, but Vretan was worthy of his title.

* * *

Chapter 7

The Pentarchy was built on custom, Ezran reflected. Refusing to follow tradition could be the downfall of a ruler. Kingdoms rotated on what spoon you used. It was the custom of the Council of Five to speak in whispers, to veil their arguments in at least seven layers of irony, and to only accept the versions of events most advantageous to them in that moment. 

And it was the custom of King Ezran and Queen Aanya to meet after every summit and discuss what had been said with perception, candor and, if at all possible, shouting.

It was always in the second alcove over to the left. Worn stone in simple blocks, painted in what was once blue, red and green but now shifted more to sky, pink and a rather nauseating shade of chartreuse, two long benches faced each other over a somewhat polished stone table. It always had a calming effect on Ezran, perhaps because of what was usually sitting in the other seat.

Queen Aanya leaned forward just enough to place her elbows on the table, steepling her fingers. “So, what do you think of the new King?”

Ezran leaned back and smiled. “Whenever you ask me what I think, you’re always going to counter with what  _ you _ think. Get that out first, and then I might provide counter-arguments if I disagree with what you say.” He stared evenly at Aanya through her fingers, realising that he had never seen her without that peculiar inset of leather she wore on her right hand to make drawing a bow more comfortable.

“I’m worried that he might be following in the footsteps of a new ruler I killed twenty-two years ago attacking the Storm Spire.”

Ezran raised an eyebrow at that. “Are you sure you’re not just annoyed that the trade talks didn’t go your way?” His smile faltered as he saw the resolve in Aanya’s eyes, observed her stance, connected it with the vague feelings he was getting from her as a sort of background radiation - the lowest he could tone his powers. Aanya  _ was _ worried. And about the right things.

“No! Well, maybe a little. But I’m more worried about this.” Aanya unrolled a sheet of parchment and slid it across to Ezran. He picked it up and studied its contents.

“It’s just… tariffs. Increased import taxes.”

Aanya sighed. “Look again.” She rose and walked over to Ezran’s side of the table as he placed the sheet down, pointing at various lines. “The tariffs on  _ freas _ ,  _ kolkaris _ and  _ saryon _ have all been raised to almost double what they previously were.”

“So were all the other ones.”

“That was correcting an oversight. The taxes on these three grains were created after the famine - over ten years after the famine. You know why that is.”

Ezran sighed. “They’re all elven staples.”

“They’re all elven staples. Vretan is unfairly attacking elvish farmers.”

“Come on, Aanya.” Ezran crossed his arms, letting the paper curl up on the table, and looked around and up at her. “Elven populations in Del Bar have increased fourfold since sixteen years ago. As you increase the amount of people using something, you can increase the rate at which it can be taxed. There’s more cream to be skimmed off. Or maybe Vretan wants to make domestic farming of these crops more viable. Or… any number of reasons. Simply increasing tariffs on elven food doesn’t make him another Kasef.”

“You just like him.” A wave of frustration crashed over Ezran, and with it, thoughts. He couldn’t help it - they were so clear. Most of them ran somewhat along the lines of,  _ I’m smarter than you, and you’re too stubborn to admit it _ \- which annoyed him, because the reasoning had merit.

He had frustration, too.

“Well, since you’re one of the few people who know about it, maybe you should trust my intuition, Aanya! He’s not a bad person, and when I say I can feel that, I mean a lot more than most people.”

Aanya sighed. “You seem intent on defending him. I won’t stop you. Just, when his new border policies,” she tapped the cylinder, “start banning elves from entering or leaving the country, admit you were wrong.”

Aanya went back and sat down on her end of the table, slouching and scowling. Ezran sat stock-still for a while, then, with slow, methodical movements, took the cylinder and slid out the sheets within. As he read, the turmoil of thoughts in his own mind only grew worse, blowing into a tempest of rage subverted by a whirlwind of uncertainty and all caught up in the hurricane of what was on the pages before.

_ Elves would not be allowed over the border to Del Bar. _

Ezran rolled up the pages and looked over at Aanya, now rapt in attention as she looked deep into Ezran’s eyes, trying to discern what he could with a flick of his mind. “I admit,” Ezran said, “I was wrong.”

Aanya jerked back, shaking her head. “No, no… it can’t be that bad. You’re joking, right?” 

“Read it for yourself,” Ezran said. “I have no need to keep it secret.” He stood up, suddenly feeling a weight bearing down on him that seemed too heavy for even a dragon. He knew that feeling well. “I apologise for leaving so soon, but… I have a King to visit.”

“Safe travels, King Ezran.”

“May the Sun guide your broadheads, Queen Aanya.”

And with that, Ezran strode out of the alcove into the now-empty hall, forming a link with Zym to tell him that he needed to go in the opposite direction.

Soren lined up the Crownguard in the courtyard, the darkening sky above them. The entire line shivered once with anticipation as Soren outlined their orders - ride for Del Bar to protect the King. Soren could practically feel their thoughts like Ezran actually could.  _ Finally! Something real! _

Soren smiled slightly as he looked back on himself at eighteen, itching for something real. By the Gods above, he’d found it.

A few minutes later, the Crownguard was saddled and ready. Avrain took up the position behind Soren and raised his eyebrows in a question as Soren turned around. He nodded once.

Avrain sparked a series of runes in the air, and a flood of green energy splashed over the courtyard. The horses’ eyes shone green, and their breath began to glow, as they stamped the ground seemingly far harder and faster than before.

Soren flicked his reins, yelling “Hyah!” as Desert Wind snorted and accelerated to a frightening pace, the Crownguard thundering out of the palace trailing green steam and surprised onlookers as they began the ride towards Del Bar.

* * *

Chapter 8

Zym angled for the large stretch of flat ground in front of the palace and swooped down, only the specially enchanted saddle keeping Ezran from whiplashing his spine out of his torso. The guards on the steps shouted as Ezran dismounted.

_ I think it might be a good idea if you left for Katolis again. _

_ Seems like a good idea. Wouldn’t want to antagonise them unduly. _

_ Oh, shut up. You know they’re due for every bit of antagonisation I’m about to give them. _

Zym chuckled, spread his wings, and flew off. Ezran, for his part, strode towards the stairs, and simultaneously unleashed the floodgates of his bond.

Two guards attempted to ask him his business, but a glare from Ezran sent them dutifully returning to their posts. As he strode down the corridors towards Vretan’s audience hall, people stood aside for him, before continuing about their business a little more confused than before. Guards never got the chance to bar his entry through certain doors - his influence motivated them to stand still and not ask questions before they even saw him. A clerk who’d escaped his corral managed to tell him that ‘this was a restricted area’ and ‘foreign dignitaries needed to wait in the Hall of Towers’ before he turned a glance on her and she abruptly stopped, eyes glossing over whenever they looked at him. The clerk shouted “Hey! Where’d he go?” before moving off down the wrong corridor.

Finally, Ezran pushed open the double doors that led into Vretan’s audience chamber. Unlike Katolis Castle, the Fortress of Azimov had the chambers of the King close to the back of the palace - no deep-cut river protected the castle from attack, and so they were in a more secure position to compensate. Ezran had always found this a severe flaw in the design - the audience hall in Katolis Castle had always been far more open to the common people than the Fortress.

Ezran sat cross-legged in the middle of the chamber, sent the two clerks who were in the room to fetch Vretan with a lazy wave of his mind, and began to meditate. 

“What is the meaning of this, King Ezran?” Vretan said, seated on his throne. Ezran had refused to communicate until Vretan had done this, although he had no idea how he knew that this was what the King of Katolis wanted.

“Vretan, you’re undermining everything that the Human Kingdoms have been working towards for the past twenty years. Erzifor, Fareeda, Aanya, myself, your own mother. And now… refusing to allow elves over the border? Unfairly taxing elven staples? Why are you doing this? What could possibly motivate you?”

“Del Bar needs more time to adjust, King Ezran. My mother was an idealist who refused to see what was happening to our nation - tearing it apart.”

Ezran stood up. He was an impressive sight even on his own - his bush of hair forming a brown halo around his head, copper glinting on his otherwise modest outfit, simple yet valuable crown worn proudly. “Katolis and Duren adjusted easily, and we only made roads forward. What you are doing is pulling elven-human relations backward. What does Del Bar even need to adjust from?”

As Vretan heard the last sentence, he realised.  _ He doesn’t know. _ He scowled. Ignorance was no excuse for a king, and Vretan breathed in fury mixed with air as he stood as well.

“One thousand. Five hundred. Fifty-four. That’s the number of  _ deaths _ from elf-human violence in the past year. I can’t remember the number of homes destroyed, or mutilations, or people driven from their livelihoods by it, but they’re all in the tens of thousands. Four hundred exactly of those deaths were humans, and three hundred and thirteen of those were humans being killed by other humans for  _ fraternising _ with elves. Most often, that’s marrying, but three humans were killed in Ortigas District two months ago for  _ baking saryon bread _ . This is what Del Bar needs to adjust from, King Ezran. My mother never saw that, but I served in the Guard, I did.”

Vretan sighed. “You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve begun an extensive probe into the Guard to root out elf-human prejudice. But you have to understand, although this is a step back, it’s saving lives. It’s damage control, no more, no less.”

Ezran seemed - no, Ezran  _ was _ taken aback. Vretan knew that. “Then I beg you, King Vretan. Lift these restrictions, but allow Katolis to help the Guard restore order. That’s what we did in Duren, when Queen Aanya was open and honest about the problems they were experiencing.”

“You want Katolian boots on Del Barian soil.”

“I assure you, I mean no treachery by it. Duren can attest to that.”

“No, it’s not you that I’m worried about.” Vretan gestured to the giant map of the continent painted onto the floor of the palace. “It’s just… I don’t believe that this is going to last. Five separate kingdoms, and all that. Xadia is already a unified force. It may take a century, two, five, but soon it’s going to unify us all, and when that happens, I don’t want humans to be the second-class citizens they were before the Mage Wars. Humans need primal magic, King Ezran. And the only person who seems capable of giving it to us is…”

“My brother.”

“The world tips on your half-brother, Ezran. I will allow troops into Del Bar - I will accept a unifying force - but you must promise in turn that you will tip him in the right direction.”

* * *

Chapter 9

Twenty horses raced through the Del Barian mountains, puffing and radiating green light, leaving ordinary vehicles practically stopped in their wake.

“I’d prefer it,” Vretan said as he and Ezran walked down the corridors together, “if you could leave on your dragon as soon as possible.” Ezran bristled at the words ‘your dragon’, but Vretan didn’t seem to notice. “Anti-Xadian sentiment tends to include you too. The Traitor King. If you left by dragon, you wouldn’t be staying here overnight, which would be bad, and you wouldn’t be leaving by horse, which would be far worse.”

Ezran reached out to Zym and was immediately met by a wave of fatigue. Zym issued a sleepy, annoyed  _ Hmm? _ , to which Ezran replied,  _ Don’t worry about it. _

“I’m afraid that, in the past day, Zym’s flown from Lux Aurea to Katolis, from Katolis to the Panarchon, from the Panarchon back to Katolis, from Katolis back to the Panarchon, from the Panarchon to Hinterpeak, and from Hinterpeak back to Katolis. He’s not in any fit state to make a round trip again.”

Vretan cursed. “Then I’m not certain I can keep you safe. I’ve barely survived several assassinations myself since coming to the throne, and I’ve been here for a month. There are still traitors in my household. Can your… mind-bendy…” Vretan wiggled his fingers at his head.

Ezran concentrated and contacted Vretan’s mind. It was as easy as lifting his hand - Vretan was barely two metres away.  _ When I ‘mind-bend’, _ Ezran thought, sending not the words, but the meaning of the words into Vretan’s mind,  _ I don’t control people. I simply persuade them of something. Usually, it’s that I’m too important for them to question or that I’m following the rules of not being supposed to be there by not being there - which people want to believe. But if, for example, someone wants to kill me, it takes time to persuade them that I’m actually a nice person and they really shouldn’t. I can do it, but it’s a lot easier to just have the Crownguard arrive here in two hours. _

Vretan’s head abruptly rose, his brow furrowed. “When did you call the Crownguard to Del Bar?”

“When I called Zym to the Panarchon for the second time, around ten hours ago.”

“Then how are they going to be here in two hours?!”

“Magic, King Vretan,” Ezran said, wiggling his fingers. “Tricksy Primal witchcraft.”

Artaxa wandered the halls of Lux Aurea. She wasn’t sure where she was going, but she had a bit of an idea. She always seemed to be going up.

Flights of white and gold stairs yielded before the young Skywing elf. She passed windows that offered views of the whole city, but she needed more. She needed the sky.

She found a balcony. Trees lined the marble path, spreading their roots pleasingly out of their holdings as their branches reached for the clouds. She glanced around. She needed  _ more _ .

There was a tower at the end of the balcony.

Artaxa’s wings flapped feebly, but she suddenly felt  _ tired _ . Oh so tired. She could walk. She didn’t have to fly.

Endless stairs. Endless stairs, seeking the sky. Endless stairs, seeking the sky, one foot after the other, so, so slow. How could other people bear it, having to walk every day, the sky forever cut off from them?

One foot after one foot after one foot after one foot after one foot…

until she hit the top, almost by accident.

Artaxa slumped on one of the pillars, then went out to lean on the railing. A smile graced her face for only a moment, then gave way to deep, great sorrow. It wasn’t enough. She needed the sky. She needed to fly…

Artaxa tipped over the edge of the railing, falling. She wasn’t quite sure why she was panicking, somewhere deep down, but she was so tired, and maybe now, she just needed to focus on that…

The screams of the onlookers turned to shocked whispers as it quickly became apparent that the young Skywing elf who’d just fallen a hundred metres from the tallest spire in Lux Aurea was, in fact, sleeping peacefully. Despite having broken the pavement.

Ezran and Zym felt the impact.

_ Is that what it feels like? _ Ezran asked as the Crownguard entered the courtyard of the Fortress of Azimov, horses shedding what looked like green steam.

_ Well, the highest fall from Katolis Castle is into the river, so that one was a lot more clean. For you, it was a badump-badump-badump down the slope, then a crunch as you hit the water, possibly followed by a couple of cracks if there were sharp rocks at that point. Artaxa, meanwhile, just had the crunch. She’s proving to be an extremely optimal choice for mind-meld. _

_ Well, she is being taught by the best in the business. _

_ The  _ only _ in the business. _

Ezran thought for a moment.  _ I’m going to have to stay awake if I don’t want to get stabbed, unfortunately.  _ He sighed mentally, separating the feeling of a sigh from its breath component.  _ You’re going to have to accompany her alone. Wish it could have been both of us. _

_ You think they’re terrifying. _

And Zym lost consciousness immediately, the silence filling Ezran’s soul.

* * *

Chapter 10

Artaxa stumbled through the streets of Lux Aurea, shifting and moving before her eyes. They slammed into the streets of a city she’d never seen before, covered in snow, the spectres of children building snowmen and having snowball fights, alternately incorporating and vanishing into the blur of the outside world. At once, the background focused - an enormous castle on a natural island, red-and-gold flags fluttering in the biting winter wind - and then Artaxa was standing on the castle wall, shivering from the gale. She ran for the tower, for some shelter from the storm - before it dissolved before her, the wall crumbling to sand. She stood in endless yellow dust, Sun beating down on her, before a tower of dark sky and fury - and all of a sudden, she knew its name.

_ Khamsin. _

The wall hit, throwing Artaxa back by her wings into a dune, then beginning to bury them, even as she struggled to break free of the living nightmare that was the storm. Artaxa screamed as the sand pinned her wings to the ground, then covered her legs, her arms, her face - 

She saw light, and felt bitter cold on her skin.

Artaxa held her breath as she realised she was underwater. Her eyes narrowed and she began to swim upwards - smooth, powerful wingstroke sending her flying through the water. The light grew closer… closer… closer…

Artaxa looked down, and a terror of tooth and scale rose out of the depths below her, long tongue lashing around her waist. Suddenly, it wasn’t a tongue at all, but cold steel, pinioning her arms and her wings as she walked for what had seemed like days, though she knew she had only been dreaming this for a few seconds - her memory rewrote itself to contain both what she had seen before and the endless excruciating hours of slavery that she knew she was experiencing now. Humans with whips laughed and picked out which ones they wanted to keep. Artaxa looked up and down the line and saw that she was one of the few elves - but one Sunfire, whipped once too far, activated his Molten technique, and the frightened slavers loosed their crossbows at the entire line. In the panic, Artaxa felt the bite of an arrow, sinking into her back and past the ribcage - 

The world rewrote itself around that cold, burning pain, and suddenly Artaxa  _ was _ a human, a human woman in rough, ancient furs dragging a badly injured man through trees taller than the highest spire of Lux Aurea. Artaxa knew not who she was, nor the man, but she knew she had a duty to whoever the two were to get him to safety. Artaxa started in fear as a lithe reddish-brown body taller than she was and walking on four legs padded out of the underbrush, its tusked snout quivering with delight as it viewed a meal that could not possibly hope to fight it - 

Lightning flashed across Artaxa’s mind.

The furred monster turned and ran as a crash of thunder sounded in the giants’ forest and Azymondias stood in a blaze of scale and majesty behind her and the man.

Azymondias bowed his head, and Artaxa separated from the woman, who began to tend for the man, caring for his wounds in a way Artaxa never knew how, administering poultices and binding wounds with intricate fur bandages.

_ When my mother was young, she saw humans as the inheritors of the Earth. She told me this story, a story of how a tribe came to view her as their God after she saved two of their young bloods from a zarion. I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner, Artaxa, but magic is the master of us all. The dragons the most. _

The scene shifted again, but now Artaxa was a grown Skywing woman, in full lightplate armour and wielding a fansword like the heroes of yore. She dove down towards Zym, who had fallen through the ground and was now fighting beings of black smoke who shot bolts of green lightning at him. Savagely moving the sword through offensive phases, she cut through the smoke, discorporating the attackers and eventually standing triumphant on the ground over the bleeding shadow of the last one. She separated again, and Azymondias again offered an explanation.

_ When I fought against the Dark Insurgency, I myself was almost slain by the forces of darkness, working insidiously to sap my power and use it against me - but Marya-Selari-Deborah, acting against the orders of the Elven High Command who wanted to see whether humans could defeat dark magic on their own, came to my rescue. It is because of her that I am alive today. _

Artaxa concentrated, gained control,  _ took _ control of her mind.  _ Are you controlling this dream? _

_ Before, you wandered alone. But two of us - we act as anchors for each other, and although this dream journey is still perilous, we have each other to aid us. _

_ What’s a dream journey? _

He chuckled. Azymond… Az… Try as she might, Artaxa couldn’t bring herself to say the full name. They weren’t melding, but she felt closer to the dragon than ever before. It felt  _ wrong _ not to call him Zym.

Zym. That was the right word.

_ Zym _ chuckled.  _ If I were to tell you, that would spoil the journey, now, wouldn’t it, Tacks? _

Artaxa sulked.  _ Mum and Dad call me Tacks. _

_ And you don’t like it? _ Artaxa shook her head.  _ How about Za? _ She considered it. It seemed so simple, when it was pointed out to her, but she had never thought of it like that before.

_ Well, then. Ez, Zym and Za. I’d almost think we were constructed to be bound. _

Artaxa grinned as, by unspoken agreement, she flapped up onto Zym’s shoulders

and together, they set off for horizons unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are probably no people (apart from me) who expect me to keep to a schedule on this, but on the off-chance that you are not me and you do, know that I'm going to be taking a break from writing this for a month due to some important exams. I'll start writing again on the 12th of November.


	5. Dark of Night

Episode 5: Dark of Night

* * *

_This will be the last letter I write to you, my love._

_I know that you are already gone, but I do not wish to, and until my last breath I will fight against that which tore us apart. You were the closest thing to my world I could find, and my greatest regret is and forever will be that you were not my world entire._

_There is one last thing that I must do, my love, while I exist. You never liked these things to be done, but I hold that they must. I hope that, when the time comes, I will strike for the world, and not for myself nor for my grief. You wouldn’t want vengeance to be my last act._

_I keep a hope - a ridiculous hope, but a hope nevertheless - that I may find you once more when I give up my last breath. Maybe my hope will not be in vain._

_Maybe I write this letter only so that, if something watches over us, they may hear my love and take pity on that ridiculous hope._

  * Last writing of the Archmage Zarian, 215 RA



* * *

Chapter 1

The translucent whitish-green liquid remained on the knife even as Viren slid it into its sheath. He briefly admired the craftsmanship, before turning to the elf he now knew as his second teacher. After so many years.

The blue fires in the braziers cast strange, beautiful shadows on the cavern walls, lighting them from seven different angles that produced kaleidoscopes of shade as the flames flickered. Viren found that, since he had begun frequenting them over twenty years ago, he had never tired of caves. They always seemed to offer something new.

The caves under Del Bar offered some of the best magical poison laboratories in the world.

Viren strode between the bubbling glassware and presented the knife. Aaravos took it, unsheathed it and tapped it on an apparatus best described as a crystal ball (though the last true crystal ball, a Moon Primal Stone, had been shattered two hundred years ago) - an elegant tripod of silvery metal upon which rested a perfectly smooth glass sphere, about fist-sized. As the blade made contact with the glass, a green-lightened shiver went through the implement faster than sound, a distant boom faintly registering to the two. The ball clouded over with black smoke inside, a roiling tempest of dark magic with occasional flashes of the customarily purple-white lightning. Aaravos laid a sickly hand upon the glass and smiled.

“I should have foreseen it. Even with my help clouding the matter to my senses, my common sense should have foreseen it. Given four hundred years without my guiding hand, you have not stagnated or slowed in your research - rather, you have accelerated.”

“It would be remiss of you to downplay your own achievements, Archmage. From what the texts have told me, you were one of humanity’s greatest assets.”

“Still, it pleases me that you are perfectly capable of going without outside aid, perhaps forever.” The elf sighed in a mucus-laden but unburdened fashion, like the breathing of a consumptive patient with abnormally strong lungs. 

“Give this to the girl and explain to her the precise importance of this mission. Do not sugar-coat it, do not attempt to manipulate. She is one of our greatest assets. She understands.”

Viren nodded and took the knife as Aaravos presented it to him, forward and confident stance concealing his sickly nature. The elf could be a little patronising at times - but he would have said the same to any of his underlings, even Claudia. The woman currently sitting quietly in a cell three doors down would do anything for the Insurgency, as long as she was not deceived as to her role.

If she were, she would become exceedingly dangerous.

Ella ceased her meditation and looked up towards the bars as the mage entered. The grey-skinned man in front of her knelt and slid a sheathed knife through the iron. “You are ready, Ella. It has been decided.”

“Before, you said that my youth disqualified me from the positions I wished to fill.”

“I have underestimated children. I will not do so again.

You, Ella, have been judged to be potentially our greatest non-magical asset, and your performance over the last few days has only strengthened that judgement. You are almost on par with our best in terms of acting as an infiltration and strike force, and you have surpassed all expectations in the torture-resistance portion of the testing. Your task is simple - kill the King of Katolis. This will cause uproar and unrest in Katolis, which will both be a severe blow to High Mage Callum, as the King is his brother, and throw him off-balance, which will allow us to strike at him.”

Ella had always believed she could focus her stone-grey eyes on an individual, subjecting them to a glare steely in more ways than one. She did so now.

“You have designs on King Ezran. High Mage Callum is of little concern to you.”

The mage nodded. “True. But if your aim is to hurt him, then by aiding us, you advance towards your own goals. You know this.”

Ella directed her metallic scowl towards the knife. “I shall not be striking at him. As I was promised.”

“You are striking at his family. In direct retaliation for what he did to yours.”

Ella’s shoulders sagged as she was forced to concede the point. She picked up the knife.

Turning the implement over in her hands, she spoke. “Is this knife all you are giving me, once-High Mage Viren? Even your best assassins would be hard-pressed to take on a city with a knife.”

Viren smirked. “You shall have right of requisition from no less than three supply depots in the city - but that knife is most likely your best chance of killing the King.”

“You still have not told me precisely why killing King Ezran advances our plans. He is merely a King, albeit one with no heirs - and Katolis, alone of the Pentarchy, can quickly and decisively regroup in the event of a succession crisis.” Viren noticed that he was pacing and stopped. That was an annoying habit.

“Come now, High Mage,” Aaravos smirked, “surely you are not ignorant of the pact between King Ezran and the Dragon Prince Azymondias?”

“Azymondias is a child now. What does a child matter to plans that span a single year?”

“A great deal, if that child is placed in the correct position. And killing King Ezran will make sure he is in the wrong one. Besides, it may provide me incentive for the second part of the plan.”

“Which is?” Viren gestured dramatically.

“I must convince the young Sky mage of something.”

“He is incorruptible.”

“I know. I shall require access to the mirror. Take control of the army while I am gone - the command phrases are on this page.” Aaravos pulled out a small piece of paper, which Viren took, eyes twisted in puzzlement.

“The… mirror? Your prison for the last three hundred years? You wish to return to _that_?”

“It isn’t a tasteful proposition, but it is necessary. I can see that - otherwise, I would not do it.”

“And how will you accomplish this feat, given the mirror is a prison and in Katolis?”

Aaravos smiled once more. “Like this.”

The mage snapped his fingers and his twisted, sickly form collapsed in on itself with a series of nauseating cracks, releasing putrefying gas that Viren wafted away. The mess would be cleaned up later.

Viren quickly scanned and burned the piece of paper, committing the phrases to memory.

* * *

Chapter 2

The horses pulled up in the courtyard of the Fortress of Azimov, and the magic left them, green smoke billowing off them and into the dirt, where Soren could have sworn the plants had grown faster for a moment. Avrain sagged in his saddle, the green light leaving his eyes too.

The courtyard was imposing, as the entire Fortress was. The grey stone wall, centred with a heavy steel portcullis, rose at a slight angle to the ground, tapering ever-so-slightly towards the top. There was no moat, and certainly no tall island such as Katolis Castle was situated on, but the mountains on either side of the Fortress were more effective fortifications than any man-made wall could be. The peaks rose everywhere except backwards, towards the city of Hinterpeak - no matter where Soren looked, there was always a snowy knife peeking between towers or standing proudly over lower buildings. And then there was the citadel itself. The courtyard measured a full fifty metres across, with green-panelled stairs leading to a bewildering yet mesmerising set of doors in the front of the castle proper and to a more bewildering series of extra courtyards that disappeared between the buildings. People rushed between buildings and doors, carrying, talking, running - and one briskly walking towards them.

A woman in flowing white hooded robes descended the steps in front of them, carrying a board-and-charcoal. Soren dismounted to meet the diplomat, who took off her hood as Soren removed his helmet, revealing straight shoulder-blade-length white hair and a high-cheeked, almond-eyed, cheerful face. Nicussa de Thess, Del Barian liaison to visitors.

“Captain Soren. You were expected to arrive in half an hour, but your attendance is welcome. If you wish, you may bring some of your Crownguard to meet with the King and my liege, who are even now discussing the best manner to protect King Ezran.”

Soren nodded and thought for a moment, scanning his Crownguard. Some wore helmets - others did not. Soren gratefully noted that Uele was one of those who had chosen to bring a helmet, completely disguising her half-elven nature - as had Derrek, Valaraz and Ker. 

“Tiadrin. Avrain. Rid. With me.” Those three - a Moonshadow half-elf for which ordinary helmets didn’t fit, and full-blooded Earthblood and Skywing elves - would receive the most animosity from the Del Barians. Even in Katolis, after all the work Ezran had done, there were those who would shy away from their touch or ignore them in the street. It was best to bring them inside the palace.

The three dismounted, other Crownguard members working quickly and efficiently to round up their horses, and assembled behind Soren. Rid stood between the two, wings acting as shades to the group as the setting Sun lanced between the mountains, throwing the courtyard into a splendour of red. Nicussa smiled at the welcome shadow, then beckoned Soren and his three young charges up the stairs and into the entrance hall.

Ezran and Vretan rose from their seats as Soren walked into the room, Ezran standing up slightly before the door opened. The three trainees stood at attention behind Soren while he bowed to each King in turn, the bow to Ezran significantly greater than that to Vretan.

“My liege, King Vretan, the Crownguard stands ready as reserve forces to protect anybody in this castle, if need be. We request that secret passageways be made known to us in our area of operation, but we do not demand it.”

Vretan nodded. “Your primary aim will be, of course, to protect King Ezran, although at any time that is not necessary, the protection of others will be most welcome. Report to Master Trevellan, keeper of keys, and he will tell you which passageways may pose problems to your activities.”

Turning to the map on the table, Vretan narrowed his eyes. “King Ezran and I have decided to throw a feast to observe his arrival in Hinterpeak. It will occur between the hours of six and nine. How are your Crownguard?”

“Alert,” Soren replied, raising an eyebrow and looking at the map. Vretan felt him tense - a strange sensation, almost like the side closest to the Captain tensing in sympathy - as he observed the seating arrangement. “My liege, I regret to tell you this, but you’re in an awfully… exposed location.”

“Precisely.” Ezran smiled and moved over to the table. “Your Crownguard have many strengths, Soren, but staying awake all night is not one of them. If we can draw potential assassins out now, between six and nine, those same assassins will be the ones not climbing in through a window while I’m asleep to stab me.”

Soren bristled, Vretan’s tensing side changing slightly in tone. “My Crownguard are not underpaid, overfed palace guards! They’ll be fine staying awake, and quite frankly, my liege, I’m surprised you don’t have more faith in them!” The three Crownguard in the room looked over in a worried manner at the outburst.

“Soren - “ Vretan held up a hand, and Ezran’s reply died on his lips.

“Captain Soren, will your Crownguard be more alert at seven or twelve?”

“They’ll be - “ Soren’s fists were clenched at his sides. “Fine. Yes, they will be more alert at seven than at twelve.”

“And so will my guards. That’s settled, then. Ezran, you will take the place of the guest of honour at my right, and Soren, you will sit at his right. The Crownguard will be set up here, here and here, in groups of…”

* * *

Chapter 3

The dining hall had been transformed into less a room and more of a continuous explosion of colour and sound. Servants passed between tables, lone islands of decorum and reservation, as people drank, danced and roared with laughter at various jesters and pantomimes that had taken the long climb to the Fortress in order to reap the rich rewards that this feast would bring.

“I’m not entirely sure that I’m worth this,” Ezran said as he picked at his salad, Soren wolfing down his third chicken. Tiadrin looked over at King Vretan - there really was nothing better for her to do than stand, watch and listen. She and Derrek were on call right now, at attention behind the thrones with that rarest of honours, the ability to bare their blades in the presence of the King.

“You go a long way towards holding the Pentarchy together, King Ezran,” Vretan said with his mouth full. “If this helps keep you alive, I’ll bear the cost gladly.”

“I’m more worried about our enemies thinking the same thing. What if the Dark Insurgency realises the plan and attacks us at our weakest? If the Crownguard are on high alert now, they’ll be more fatigued come the time they may strike.”

“You might have said that beforehand.”

“I had no better ideas. It’s convincing, certainly - most would be fooled by it. But the Dark Insurgency isn’t most.”

The two lapsed into silence as Soren started on a fourth chicken. 

There was much commotion as the giant kitchen doors opened and a large roast boar came out, accompanied by many servants and a commensurate amount of cheering. The servants began to distribute the carved meat, beginning with the high table. Ezran smiled as the portion was placed on his plate, then attempted and failed to place it on top of Soren’s already-existing one sneakily.

The servant who’d placed it down winced. “My - my lord, is the boar not to your liking?” Ezran turned slightly. “I’m sorry, I’m a vegetarian.” The woman made a small _moue_ of surprise as Ezran’s voice echoed in Tiadrin’s mind - and presumably those of Derrek and Soren.

_Impostor._

Soren slid sideways out of his chair and kicked it towards the servant from the ground, pinning her between Ezran’s chair and his own as Ezran slid out the other way, moving underneath the table. The woman pulled out a knife as Soren stood up and stabbed him in the shoulder - yelling in a bear-like rage, Soren didn’t waste time pulling out weapons, simply picking up the assassin bodily and throwing her into a wall. The woman fell to the ground, bleeding from a head wound and struggling to sit up.

The Crownguard behind the throne suddenly had bigger problems. 

Arrows whistled down through the windows - Vretan hadn’t been able to completely secure some firing positions from outside, instead choosing to prioritise those that could directly target Ezran. Derrek kicked Vretan’s sturdy oak chair ninety degrees around, protecting him from fire from one set of windows, while Tiadrin took the other side, presenting her shield and desperately trying to cover both herself and the King. An arrow glanced off her right horn, scoring a mark in it and wrenching her head painfully - but she held on. She _had_ to hold on.

Tiadrin waited for the third prong of the attack as shouting came from outside, confirming that the archers had either been run off or captured.

People always think in threes, Soren had taught the Crownguard. If they’re just thinking of one way to assassinate someone, then they’ll go for the single way - but if multiple angles are planned, they’ll gravitate towards a three-pronged attack. The servant girl - who’d hardly been a threat at all - was one, the archers - who were now neutralised - were two. Where was the third?

Soren grabbed the woman as she staggered to her feet, the knife still protruding from his shoulder. The Crownguard formed a ring around the two Kings, Tiadrin remaining perched on the arm-rests of the chair with her cracked horn and arrow-riddled shield - but no further assault happened.

Soren looked around confused as the commotion died down, Vretan releasing his iron grip from the arms of his chair and breathing a sigh of relief and Ezran looking up puzzled from the opposite side of the table. The King had evidently gone to the Soren School of Tactics.

“Only two, then. Stand down. Any injuries, I have been instructed that the infirmary is off to the right. Just you, Tia? Follow me, then.” Soren walked off down the steps, leaving Orwin - a twenty-year-old who’d carved himself a place as Soren’s reliable right hand - to supervise the Crownguard.

Behind him, Ezran stared after the spurious servant woman, scowling as, to Tiadrin, it almost seemed like he was trying to make her reveal something.

* * *

Chapter 4

“Toxicology’s come back,” Vretan said, unfolding a piece of paper, “and there was… nothing on the knife. That oily substance appears to just be, well, oil.”

“Like no oil I’ve ever seen,” Ezran responded. “The stuff was greenish-white, Vretan.” 

“Regardless, chemically it’s almost certainly oil. Perhaps the Dark Insurgency have found a more efficient way to oil their weapons, one that somehow involves extracting life from insects.”

It was late at night, and the two walked down long and narrow corridors, dimly-lit by torches placed high on the walls so that someone passing wouldn’t catch their clothes on fire. Ezran blearily opened a door outwards, and the two stepped through one of the back entrances to the infirmary.

There were only two occupants of the beds tonight. One lay on the bed, twiddling his thumbs, with a bandage over his right shoulder, while the other sat on the edge, getting her eyes checked by a Sunfire physician with a small light at the end of his finger. As the kings approached, the elf rose.

“My liege… King Ezran… Tiadrin here appears to have completely recovered from her concussion, and can most likely return to her post.” Tiadrin nodded, scooped her polearm up from the bedside table, and got into a position that could roughly be described as ‘at ease’ but was probably supposed to be ‘attention’. Ezran smiled.

“Right now, young Tiadrin, I think your post is asleep. I distinctly remember Ruk and Ker are assigned to my safety right now,” Ezran gestured to the two, “so go and get some rest.”

Tiadrin smiled gratefully, mumbled a few thanks and left.

“You all right, Soren?” The Captain gave a double thumbs up. “It was just a minor shoulder wound. I’ve killed people after I was hit worse. How’s the assassin going? No lasting complications?”

Ezran detected worry in his voice, and projected his puzzlement back. Soren shrugged, and a few pictures flashed through Ezran’s mind - a dragon’s tail, a sickening crunch, a terrible lack of feeling that dulled the cold of the infirmary for a brief second. “I don’t want to be the one to do that. I dealt with it, but to others...”

“You’re fine with killing people, but when it comes to paralysing - “

“Colour me hypocritical, I know. But it’s who I am.”

Ezran smiled. “I would never call someone else hypocritical. That would be hypocritical.”

The physician tapped Ezran on the shoulder. “Terribly sorry, King Ezran. Just telling you that the wound is surprisingly resistant to healing. I have a feeling that that’s what the liquid on the blade was for.”

“Thank you, Massiwe.” He lapsed into silence as the Sunfire elf retired slightly puzzled at how Ezran got his name. He attempted to find the low strands of consciousness that were his only connections to Zym and Artaxa - they were there, but only as the faintest whispers. 

Ezran’s brow furrowed. Even while he was sleeping, Zym’s consciousness blazed five times as bright as this. Was this normal, for a dream journey? He shrugged as he said his goodbyes to Soren and trudged out of the room. He had no frame of reference - every time he’d journeyed with Zym, their bond had blazed brighter than a thousand suns. A small flash drew his attention as he walked.

Sadness.

Zym alighted on the mountaintop, and Artaxa gasped in awe.

They were standing on the rim of a massive crater in the earth on top of the mountain, filled with water and somehow perfectly reflecting the Moon. From the shores to the centre of the massive lake, every single facet of water was tinged a brilliant silver. The light played on the trees at the side of the lake almost halfway up the crater, and the trees themselves burned with silver light too. Even Zym was mildly affected, his scales showing up a lighter blue.

Ahead of them was a viewing platform, wrought out of the elegant material that defined Moonshadow architecture. On it were two figures - a giant bird, wings of an elegant blue, and an old, white-haired woman. The woman was whispering something to the bird. Zym tensed beside Artaxa. _This night… that was unexpected._

 _Who are they?_ Artaxa whispered through her mind, then screamed out loud as green light flashed around them, decimating them instantly to ash. Flashes of lightning came from underneath the platform, yells of “ _Fulminis!_ ” audible even from a third of a kilometre away, and a red-and-gold robed individual ascended the platform, falling to his knees and sobbing over the piles of ash, already being blown away in the wind. Artaxa suddenly felt a twisting tempest of rage and anguish in the man as Zym extended his mind, sharing in his grief. 

_One who is no more, Za._

Artaxa felt tears in her eyes. _Why… why is the dream showing me this?_

Zym sighed, the great rumble simultaneously shaking the mountain and leaving it undisturbed. _The journey shows us what we need to know. For you, it is the burden of the bond._ Za suddenly felt a wave of guilt from the great dragon. _Dammit, we should have realised! But… now it is done._

_Joined to the minds of two kings, Za, you are going to have to accept some dark truths about the world. Everyone dies, and nobody can be brought back. That’s the first the journey decided to show you._

_I don’t want to know that._

Zym rumbled. _I didn’t either. But then we lost her._

The two watched as the gold-robed man - High Mage Callum, as Zym had shown her through memories - went down to the water’s edge with a single blue feather in his hands. As light streamed from the pool, working its way into the shape of the giant bird, Callum knelt in the waves. The bird looked down at Callum with a questioning look, then, as Callum shook his head once, screamed into the sky.

* * *

Chapter 5

They were _through_ the shield wall.

Gatis roared in triumph as he charged through the gap, passing the hated elves by - those elves who’d locked them out of Xadia, who’d denied them access to magic, who’d sat in their high towers in luxury and watched over the border as the peoples of the Pentarchy laboured and starved. They were not the target. The top of the Storm Spire, the evil Dragon Prince, and his mother the Queen were.

Gatis smiled and increased his speed.

Charging over the rough, stony ground interspersed with patches of lichen, small boulders and bits of grass, Gatis formed a rough mass with his startroop of 5 and headed up the shallow incline, following many other startroops. Just as Gatis’ troop breached the line, it closed.

It was just them. For now.

They hit the first hard incline, exhilarating in the rushes of speed and power the enchantment gave them. Springing off the rocks, occasionally grabbing onto the stone with their hands as they raced up cliffs, Gatis fell into a rhythmic climbing-running action and urged his teammates through body-language to copy him - Gatis’ startroop soon found itself outstripping the next-to-last group.

Ahead of him, soldiers were screaming.

Gatis’ eyes bugged as a soldier flew right past him, then instinctively shied away as a crack of lightning sounded over a hundred metres away. His startroop rallied as they caught a glimpse of a lone, dark figure up the mountain, calling the elements to his aid.

An elvish mage.

Gatis looked to Perenna, who thought for a minute. Of the startroop, Perenna was the one who’d retained most of her ability to think - they hadn’t thought they’d need that, but she had become the _de facto_ leader of the troop, and she was turning out to be a valuable asset. Plus, she’d fully retained the memories of…

Gatis shook his head as Perenna outlined the course of action - use cover on the north side to sneak by the mage. Mission before marriage. 

The startroop disappeared into the rocks on the north side, dashing from cover to cover as the elf - no, not an elf, but a _human_ , holding a book - blasted away at the attackers with lightning and wind. Five… four… three… two… one… and suddenly the startroop knelt behind the fifth and final piece of cover before the dash to the narrow cliff opening that would see them safe from the mage.

Perenna checked that everyone was there, looked for the mage’s distraction, then led the mad rush to the gap.

It was barely a hundred metres away. They’d make it in seconds.

The mage noticed.

Helar was immediately transfixed by a bolt of lightning, her scream dying in her throat as the rest of her did too, a smoking body falling to the stone. The startroop ran past her, Gatis taking the lead as they neared the opening, leaping and bounding over stones and - 

A wave of air slammed into the troop. Gatis immediately slammed his halberd into the ground, losing just enough momentum to keep him from toppling over the edge.

But the others weren’t so lucky.

Gatis looked down, horrified, as he saw his three teammates crack on the valley floor beneath. Perenna had landed on her legs, which were now shattered, a pool of blood slowly leaking from her weakly struggling body. Serv and Jon weren’t moving.

Almost in slow motion, Gatis looked back at the mage and locked eye and tearful eye with him as lightning arced through the intervening space.

The eyes were black as midnight.

Callum screamed as he woke, sitting up in bed like he’d been pulled by strings. Rayla, in a panic, flipped out of the sheets and landed on the end of the bed, silhouetted against the moonlight through the curtains. Assessing the room, she crawled back up the bed somewhat sheepishly, putting her hands on Callum’s shoulders. “You all right?”

“Sorry about that.” Callum placed his right hand over hers, squeezing it lightly. “Just a bad dream.”

Rayla’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve known you for twenty-two years, Callum, and that was a lie.”

Callum’s shoulders dropped and he averted his eyes. “Fine. It’s a little more than a bad dream.”

Rayla grinned, teeth shining in the darkness.

“You didn’t know that was a lie, did you?”

“I’ve known you for twenty-two years, Callum, and I knew you’d fall for that.”

Callum scoffed, pulling her close to him. “Diplomats. Who wants them.” They shared a kiss. Rayla extricated herself from Callum’s grip and clambered back underneath the sheets, resting her head on the pillow and looking at him intently. “So, what’s the little more?”

He sighed. “I’ve been having… nightmares about things that happened in the past. About the Storm Spire, about the Dark Insurgency. I’ve always been a soldier, or a mage, or a - “ Callum’s body tensed.

“The boy.” Rayla pulled Callum down into a hug.

“I… I didn’t even know he was in the building…”

“Shhh.”

They remained like that for a while, in silence, Callum comforted by Rayla’s warmth.

“I’m always someone killed by me. Always someone who looks into my eyes at the moment of the kill. And when I do… Did I ever tell you about the Dark Self?”

Rayla nodded. “Once or twice. Tried to convince you of your destiny or something.”

“It’s him. The eyes are black, the face is grey and twisted. Every time I see myself kill, I’m him.”

“Callum…” The hug came again, this time stronger. Callum wasn’t sure there was an upper limit to Rayla’s strength, but if there was, she definitely wasn’t using it - she’d snapped spines in the past with her hands. It was curiously comforting to be held by someone who could, and yet didn’t, kill you with barely an effort. “You kill because you must, same as I do, same as the General does, same as Ez does. That _monster_ would kill because it could.”

“But it’s still a part of me. The elves say the Sun Forge might cleanse it, but it’s been with me so long… Do I let it out when I kill?”

Rayla thought for a moment. “Battle of Trevenar, right after the cavalry charge. You had a shot at Lord Trevenar, which you could have taken.”

“I went to help you defend the weakened flank. Just as well I did, too, given that corrupted Titan.”

“You saved my life, rather than kill an enemy.”

“I… yes. I did.”

“So it doesn’t matter who kills people, you or your Dark Self, because it’s you who decides who dies.”

“What if we’re one and the same?”

Rayla stroked Callum’s left wedding band, which was, right now, the upper one. “I have proof that you’re not. I love you, Callum. I always will.”

Rayla kissed him once, softly, on the lips, and they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

* * *

Chapter 6

The assassins had been either apprehended or slain.

Ezran walked through his audience chamber, blood staining the walls, and pulled his thrown sword out of the chest of one of the unluckier Insurgency operatives, causing him to slump to the floor, dead. Seniv and Drestin assisted the servants in hauling the bodies out, and Ezran shouldered the man he’d killed, walking behind the procession as they moved out into one of the walled courtyards of the Fortress. This was the Garden of Azimov - in other words, the castle graveyard.

It was a solemn procedure, but one that Ezran watched until the end. The dawn light shone over the mountains, but the entire Fortress was still wreathed in the deepest of shadow, as was Hinterpeak. The city would receive light in the next hour, but the Fortress would remain in the mountains’ shade for much longer.

The last piece of dirt was shovelled back in over the unmarked graves, and Ezran beckoned his two Crownguard to follow him back to his chambers. They were to ride in an hour, the better for leaving Del Bar before nightfall without using Avrain’s draining Earth magic again, and Ezran needed to change out of his nightshirt. He passed the head servant, standing gravely with a shovel in his hand.

“Please tell King Vretan I’ll pay for the damage to his guest chambers.”

The old man smiled. “I will, milord, but I will not promise an acceptance.”

Ezran smiled and walked out of the Garden. Reviewing his choices, he realised that the easiest way back to his quarters was directly over the front wall of the Fortress - the only artificial wall it had, bordered by mountains as it was. He smiled.

He enjoyed walls.

Irista, assistant to Massiwe the physician, was finishing her singular round, checking up on Captain Soren, before she left for Hinterpeak. She and Feldwin had been trying for two months, and they were going to produce a child if they had to do it for two decades.

She had to admit to herself that it wasn’t the _least_ fun activity in the world.

She checked up on Soren. Yup, still asleep. No infection in the wound, which had already scabbed - she took the bandages off deftly, making sure not to wake the man, and disposed of them in the furnace at the centre of the room. Best investment Massiwe had ever made.

Behind her, Soren sat up. “Lie back down, you big lug,” she called out cheerfully as she chucked the bloody bandages in the fire, swinging the small door shut, “you’re going out on a horse today, may as well keep the risk of - “ 

The Captain was staring at her with glowing purple eyes.

Irista had been raised in Lux Aurea, but even she knew what dark magic looked like.

The nurse fled the room, shaking off her shoes as Soren leaped from the bed and gave chase. Irista flew down the stone-carved corridors, wishing now more than ever that she had _magmalar_ \- an irrational childhood dream, given that she was a Skywing. She looked back - the Captain was gaining on her, light lancing from his eyes.

The light flashed and Irista screamed as she lost her vision for a second, stumbling but managing to catch herself. She kept running, repeating the phrase _don’t look back_ in her mind.

Irista rounded a corner and saw two palace guards, chatting as they patrolled down the hallway. “Run!” she screamed.

The two looked back down the hallway as Soren leaped off the far wall to gain momentum down the hallway and levelled their spears.

Brilliance filled the corridor and Irista crashed into a wall as she tried to run blind. Something - a spear haft - swept her legs out from under her and sent her crashing to the floor, and as she regained her vision, she saw the Captain standing over her with two bloody spears.

He threw one away and raised the other.

“Please!”

Soren scowled and thrust the spear forward, stopping an inch above Irista’s chest.

“I’m not a threat, please! I’m just… I’m just a… please…” Irista felt tears begin to flood down her face as she looked at the bloodied spear-point, twenty centimetres away from her eyes and ten from her heart.

_Do it, Claudia. She can raise the alarm. You must make compromises, kill to save. You have before._

Claudia heard her father’s voice and felt now more than ever the bitter cold of the control sphere in her hands.

“Not. A. Word.”

Irista looked up at the Captain’s expressionless face as he said the words, then flipped the spear upwards, continuing into a run. The elf released the breath she was holding and began to sob unhindered, whispering prayers of thanks to the Light.

Ezran strode along the battlements, breathing in the brisk morning mountain air as the Crownguard fell into step behind him. Mist curled in the dawning sky, making playful shapes as it swirled over their heads. 

Ezran felt balanced. A few minutes ago, he’d been in a maze of blood and death. Now, he was beneath the opening sky, watching breath-shapes as they rose to the heavens. All was well.

Soren emerged from a hatch in the walkway, which slightly annoyed him. Oh well, true balance couldn’t exist for long.

“Soren, you should be resting so you properly scab. The physician said that you’d only do that if you rested until - is that blood on that spear - “

Soren turned, and Ezran’s mind contacted thoughts he’d never felt before, but were unmistakable - just as Soren’s glowing eyes flashed.

The three stumbled back, but mentally, Ezran lunged, desperately grabbing for the mind he knew was before them. Latching on, he raised his sword and closed his eyes, allowing them to recover, as he confidently strode forward.

Claudia’s mind recoiled as Ezran blocked Soren’s thrust perfectly, and then opened his eyes and smiled. _When there are a pair of perfectly good eyes in front of me, why should I need use my own?_

“Ruk, Ker, get back!” Ezran shouted, half-swording for more leverage. “I’ll call for backup.”

“King Ezran, we’re here to protect you!”

“You’re not here to die. Wait for backup.” Ezran smirked, flipped the spear out from its resting position, and swiftly stepped back, brandishing his sword.

* * *

Chapter 7

Tiadrin and Avrain raised their heads as two palace guards poked and prodded three black-robed figures into the cells adjacent to the one the serving woman was in. They’d been on guard duty for an hour, eating breakfast a little early, and that involved standing still and looking pretty in front of a woman who probably didn’t need a cell to be harmless, let alone a guard.

Understandably, they were a little ticked off.

“What even were you, anyway?” Tiadrin asked, tilting her head slightly to get a look at the young woman. She hadn’t slept, at least according to the Crownguard that she and Avrain had replaced. 

“A distraction,” the woman replied. “We were planning to shoot down the tapestries that covered the King from attack, but apparently, Hinterpeak marksmen aren’t nearly as good as the ones where I’m from.” She sighed. “I’d been promised the best.”

Avrain turned slightly as well. “So you were in the chain of command for this attack?”

“I am in the chain of command for this attack.”

Avrain gestured at the newly-imprisoned assassins. “They say you’re not.”

The woman chuckled. “The oh-so-noble King Ezran always observes his enemies’ burials, does he not? And the graveyard is quite a distance from his well-protected room.”

Avrain and Tiadrin winced and stumbled as a shout made its way directly through their nervous systems. _Help on the battlements, subdue not kill._

The young woman recovered from the psychic yell, then smiled brightly. “The poisoned knife wasn’t for the King. It was for his favourite guard.”

_You’re at a disadvantage._

Ezran felt Zym’s waking mind unfurl to its full glory, alongside a smaller but no less intricate one. _I know._

_His weapon is better than yours for this sort of task. He’s stronger and faster than you, and due to the influence, he’s not going to have any limits on what he can do. I suggest flight._

_Well, unlike you two, I can’t fly. I suggest a meld._

_What’s a meld?_

Zym grinned as he lay on the grassy knoll outside Katolis Castle reserved for him. _You’re about to find out._

Ezran smiled at Soren, blasting his mind with conflicting thoughts about city zoning limits (he knew those interminable meetings would come into use someday), and ran back towards the Crownguard. Just before he reached the startled teenagers, he turned, rolled his eyes back into his head

and brought both Zym and Za into his head.

The three felt a rush of exhilaration at the complete link, felt again after time spent apart, and narrowed their eyes as Ezran brandished his sword, running back towards the mind-controlled guard in front of him.

Za flipped out of the bed she’d been placed in as Ezran did the same over the side wall, jumping clear over Soren and aiming a strike at his Achilles tendon. Soren barely parried, then came around and stabbed at Ezran’s exposed back. Ezran felt the blow coming and whipped his sword back around his head, taking the spear-point to his left as he rolled forward and twisted around, dropping into a low guard position.

_I have one advantage. I can see her thoughts._

_I suppose._

_Guys -_

The attention of the two turned to Artaxa, roughly copying Ezran’s movements on the bed as she added speed and dexterity to his movements.

_\- we’re going to win this, right?_

Ezran smiled as he battered at Soren with a series of strokes that chipped pieces off the oakwood haft of the spear. _With you and Zym here, we can take him with room to spare._

Avrain licked his finger and tested the wind, remaining immobile. Tiadrin looked at him from the door, eyes narrowing and mouth slightly opening in a bewildered and slightly disapproving manner.

“What are you doing? We need to go help the King.” Tiadrin gestured with her axe to the door. “And… and there’s no wind in a dungeon.”

Avrain paid no heed to her words, smiling and pointing. “The King is _that_ way.”

“Well, of course he’s that way, that’s the way to the battlements, where else would he - “

Avrain carved a rune in the air and the wall dropped into a floor. Tiadrin looked down the rapidly receding tunnel, smoothly forming into a square as it shot in a straight line towards Ezran’s location. When it breached the ground, it began and then continued to form a ramp, smoothly connecting with the upper wall and completing the impromptu tunnel.

Avrain panted, grinning. “I’m told I have a lot of raw power.” Tiadrin raised an eyebrow and dashed up the slope, Avrain following as he took his reshwood halberd from his shoulder.

“Your daughter is absolutely fine,” Callum reassured Gurian and Sofia as he gently blocked their way to her. “She does need to be left in peace, though.”

Rayla looked back to where Artaxa was flipping, jumping and (at one point) pirouetting on the bed with the grace of a trained acrobat, then gave a reassuring smile to the girl’s parents. “Ezran often does this when he’s with Zym. Sometimes, he just extends his arms and, twitches them a little?” She glanced at Callum, who nodded. “Good, I’m not seeing things. But sometimes he does this sort of thing, trying to copy Zym’s movements. It’s perfectly fine and it’ll be over in around five or ten minutes.”

Artaxa _was_ Ezran.

She had no wings in this form, which was both restrictive and freeing - but with the strength of Zym and her own dexterity lent to Ezran through the bond, she was able to leap and dodge to her heart's content. _Their_ heart's content, for right now, all of them shared the same heart.

Batting Soren's spear away, the three-in-one advanced on the suddenly off-balance Crownguard Captain, hacking and slashing - with the flat of the blade, but the power behind the strokes was real - until Soren was forced to give ground. Beneath the physical fight, Artaxa felt a mental duel between Ezran and the being she now knew as Claudia, Ezran and Zym offering memories of the woman to her. Ezran was winning, heavily, and although he couldn't drive Claudia out of Soren's mind, he could keep her off-balance.

Ezran trapped the spear-point in between blade and quillion, then grabbed the haft and pulled. Soren came hurtling at the King, but he was prepared for such a move, and as he rushed past, he made a backhanded swipe at Ezran's calf with his spear. _A successful calf strike is usually a killer_. Ezran jumped, using Artaxa's knowledge of gravity to maximise his potential to outspeed the tip of Soren's spear. He did so, and the spear passed harmlessly beneath him.

Ezran laid a series of overhand swings at Soren, each time stepping forward. Soren's guard was kept up, but he was slipping, the blood on the spear-haft making it slick and unresponsive. Eventually, the tiniest opening was laid bare.

All they had to do, in that split second that seemed to stretch into eternity, was to flip over Soren and land on the edge.

 _Are we ready?_ Zym thought, as time seemed to hang in the air around them.

 _Ready,_ said Ez.

 _Ready,_ said Za.

 _Ready,_ said Zym.

Artaxa flipped and miscalculated, stepping into a sheet and falling off the bed with a thump.

“That sometimes happens. Don’t worry, she’ll be fine.”

Artaxa clutched at her leg and began screaming.

* * *

Chapter 8

Ezran vaguely felt the alarm of his Crownguard as they ran down the ramp that he had sworn hadn’t been there a second ago.

He was lying on the ground inside the wall with what felt like a wrenched ankle.

Zym was working to calm Artaxa down and get her focused, leaving Ezran relatively free to do his own thing. He grabbed his sword and rose shakily to one foot, using Zym’s strength, his good foot and the wall to support his weight, and faced the glowing-eyed Captain, who was walking down the stairs that had probably been there for a while. He smiled drunkenly.

_We can take him._

_I… I’m not sure we can, Ez._

_no please i’m sorry i’m so sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry_

_It’s not your fault, Za. Things like this happen all the time._

_Never in a life-or-death situ -_

_shut up Zym. We need you, Artaxa. Your dexterity could mean the difference._

_it already has_

_Artaxa, this is the time to act._

Soren smiled wickedly as he raised the spear, and Ezran took a second hand on his sword as he leaned his back to the wall, scowling at - 

Soren turned, sensing movement, and blasted the four Crownguard behind him.

Avrain and Tiadrin were both caught unawares by the flash - but Ruk and Ker had both seen it before, and they shielded their eyes before moving to shield their temporarily helpless companions. Soren scowled, but couldn’t get through their defence - at least for the second that it took for the others to shake off their blindness.

_If we can touch him, we might be able to set our own will upon him._

Then all four Crownguard set on him.

Soren went down under a hail of blows, then leaped out of the throng, swinging his sword wildly. It bit into Tiadrin’s shield and stuck, eliciting a growl from the mind-controlled swordsman. Tiadrin saw the kick coming and braced for impact, trusting in her training and the relentless hours of strength and conditioning her mother had subjected her to.

Soren kicked the shield and fell backwards, the sword exploding from the barrier in a splinter of wood that made Tiadrin wince. That was going to take hours of work to repair - but the Captain was off-balance, and if there was one thing they were not going to forget in a while, it was to surround the opponent.

Ruk to her left and Avrain to her right, the four encircled Soren. Tiadrin looked towards King Ezran, who was stumbling with a somewhat blank expression - towards the group?

Tiadrin shouted for the King to run, then covered her eyes with her shield as Soren’s eye-blast recharged.

That wasn’t a mistake, but it had the same effect as one.

Soren immediately capitalised on his trappers covering their eyes and lunged at Tiadrin, knocking her to the ground. Two frighteningly quick and terrifyingly powerful strokes first broke Tiadrin’s shield in two, and then smashed the shattered pieces off her arm. Tiadrin yelped as a dislodged shard slashed her face below her left eye and scrambled back, desperately trying to escape the implacable spectre of death above her.

Soren glowered and turned away from the supine Crownguard as Ker and Avrain advanced on him from different sides, testing his spearwork to the limits as they tried their level best to break through his defence. Tiadrin, focused on the fight, placed her shield hand - now free - on the ground to push herself up. She screamed, looking back at the arm that was now bent at two places, the second - where Soren’s second strike had landed - bloody red with hints of white sticking through.

Tiadrin felt sick.

Soren was fighting his way back over to her.

Tears in her eyes and yelling unheard by herself, Tiadrin pushed herself up with her axe hand and fought through the pain, kneeling and then standing up. She brandished the axe, letting her useless left hand fall limply to her side, and attacked.

The axe had less power behind it - even in constant pain, Tiadrin was at least a little cautious about moving too much - but Tiadrin had trained to use it in one hand, and the blows were at least precise. Soren barely managed to parry the first blow, pushing back with all his strength against the weight of the single-headed axe.

Soren grabbed the sword with both hands and pressed the attack against Tiadrin, but Ruk stepped in front, beating the Captain back with his quarterstaff. Tia darted around the taller human, bringing the flat of her axe down towards the back of Soren’s head.

Soren sideswiped the axe and kicked her in the chest, sending her to the floor - before a hand grabbed him on the shoulder.

King Ezran stood behind Soren, a solemn expression on his face. Claudia tried to keep him out, but now with contact between him and her brother, Ezran was too strong for her.

The light left Soren’s eyes and he dropped to the floor.

* * *

Chapter 9

Soren woke groggily, staring at a white ceiling.

First sensation - sight. That worked. Now for sense of

pain.

Soren felt that he was going to have to take a break before he tested his sense of hearing. Everywhere hurt. It felt like his veins were on fire. His muscles burned in protest - against what, he didn’t know, but they were definitely in protest. 

He lifted a finger, without looking in case moving the muscle hurt - he didn’t want to move his entire neck if that was the case - but thankfully, there was no increase in pain.

Now for sense of hearing. He was hearing things, he was certain of that. He focused. 

“... it’s undetectable, we wouldn’t be able to find it and isolate it if we tried…”

“... now, let’s just keep him steady…”

“--- oh, you’re awake…”

Soren was vaguely aware that he was being called upon to turn his head and behold someone. He did so, and was met by a bright, cheery, elven face.

“He’s awake, physician.”

“Oh, good. Now, come help me with the instruments, Haravva, I must realign this young woman’s arm.”

Soren was puzzled.

Smell, touch and taste came after, although taste was rather useless in his current situation. Touch, though, was interesting.

Someone had manacled his hands to the bed.

This was a strange turn of events.

“Uh, hello?” Soren asked, raising his head to look at the infirmary. It was a lot more full than it had been last time. Many assistants rushed around the beds, tending to people with a bewildering assortment of wounds. Soren focused on one such wound, judging the probable length and force imparted with such a weapon. It appeared to be from a standard Del Bar Guard spear. Had there been an attempted coup by some of the palace guards themselves?

And why was he manacled to the bed?

Soren looked over to the opposite bed, catching a flash of purple-blue horns. Was that… Tiadrin? Almost certainly, very few Moonshadow elves were seen west of the border. Soren pushed himself up slightly on his cot and watched as Tiadrin was handed a towel to bite down on. What followed, he couldn’t see, but he heard the screams even through the towel.

What had happened that would cause one of his Crownguard such injury?

As Vretan and Ezran walked in, Vretan in a heavy winter cloak and Ezran in full armour and limping slightly, Soren felt that he would have his answers soon.

“Vretan, I chased the corruption out of his head, I know it.”

Vretan shrugged. “As far as we know, whatever substance was on that knife hasn’t left his bloodstream, and won’t for another two to three weeks. We can’t afford to risk it flaring up again.”

“I saw inside his mind.”

“Not his blood. Let’s hear what he has to say about this.”

Ezran harrumphed and leaned on the top of Soren’s cot. “So, Soren, what say you about this?”

“What say me about what, my liege? I’m not quite sure what’s happening, or what’s happened.”

Ezran thought for a bit. _Any ideas of how to break it to him tactfully?_

Artaxa responded. _From what you’ve given me about him, I’m not sure he’d like it put tactfully._

Ezran nodded. “Well, your sister is responsible for roughly a hundred percent of the casualties here.”

“Claudia knows how to wield a spear?”

“Nope. But you do.” Ezran patted Soren on the shoulder. “You got mind-controlled.”

Soren had asked for the casualties, then the deaths, then the names. He’d remained silent for a while, before nodding and agreeing with King Vretan.

“King Ezran, as Captain of your Crownguard, I say that the best course of action to take would be to leave these on - even just as a precaution.”

“Soren, I know what I saw. The influence was completely purged. I’m going to need you when we leave for Katolis, and I know that the danger’s past.”

“Ez, did you feel anyone in my mind _before_ my eyes turned purple and I started killing - sorry, must have blacked out for a second.”

Ezran and Vretain were staring at him, hands on their sword-hilts. Several of those closest to him had instinctively covered their eyes, while two or three nurses looked ready to carry the badly-injured out.

“It happened again, didn’t it?”

“It wasn’t Claudia this time.” Ezran whispered, looking at Soren’s forehead like an ordinary person might have looked at a venomous spider. The second half echoed through their minds clear as day.

_It was Viren._

Tiadrin spluttered her drink over the tiles in front of her. Vretan recoiled, and Soren felt a deep chill settle in his bones.

* * *

Chapter 10

The four - Ezran, Vretan, Soren and Tiadrin for security - had moved into another room. Soren had been manacled on both hands and feet and was sporting a rather stylish blindfold made out of a child’s jumper. Tiadrin chugged the last of the foul-tasting liquid that Physician Massiwe had told her to drink - to help repair the ‘Vesalius scabbards’ of her arm’s nerves, he’d said.

The room was long and marked by no less than six doors, one in the middle of each narrow wall and two towards the centre of each long one. A table took pride-of-place at the centre, black oak with similarly wrought chairs. Torches guttered in wall-brackets, these ones lower down - one could afford to move out of the way and not hit one’s head in a room such as this. Everyone took a seat - Vretan and Ezran on the right side, and Soren and Tiadrin on the left.

Tiadrin hooked Soren’s chain around a table leg and stood to leave. Ezran raised a hand, and she stopped, not knowing quite why.

“Tiadrin, fetch all the mages in the castle, and then come back. That’s Physician Massiwe and Avrain?” he asked, directing his attention to Vretan, who nodded. Tiadrin made her obeisances and left.

The young half-elf walked outside, told Physician Massiwe to enter the room, then went searching for Avrain. She felt a spring in her step as she moved towards the front of the castle - among the Crownguard, there were unspoken but accepted cliques, and she and Avrain had isolated themselves into one of these. Tiadrin had found that it was always a fun day when Avrain was involved, and he usually had bits of wisdom ready to counteract her more irrational impulses. 

The Sun was just beginning to peak over the mountains as Tiadrin got to the top of the Fortress’ lone wall, where Avrain was sheepishly repairing the last of the ramp under the watchful eye of several soldiers. As the last section sank into the ground, Avrain leaned against a wall, soaked with sweat even at this early hour. Apparently, repairing damage was a lot harder than causing it.

“The King wants you,” Tiadrin said, airily sticking a thumb in the general direction of the infirmary. 

“Where?”

“Little room off the infirmary. He said to get all the mages and report back.”

“How many are there?“

Tiadrin shrugged. “As far as I know, just you and the physician.” Avrain nodded, stretched and followed her.

Ezran, Zym and Artaxa melded in Ezran’s mind, each observing the young Crownguard heading out the door. Ezran headed around and took Tiadrin’s seat, removing Soren’s jumper and manacles and placing a hand on his shoulder. “How do you feel?”

“Honestly,” Soren replied, staring off into space, “not sure. My sister… my sister didn’t kill the nurse, which is a positive.”

“She did kill seven other people, though.”

“But she stopped at the helpless and incapacitated.”

Ezran nodded. “I supose. And… your father?”

Soren sighed. “My father most probably died at the battle of the Storm Spire. Maybe before that. Former High Mage Viren, on the other hand… he’s going to be a problem.”

The three lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, broken first by Massiwe, apologising as he walked in with his hands covered in blood - careful not to touch anything - then a few minutes later by Tiadrin and Avrain, the latter smelling something terrible. He sat down on the opposite end to Tiadrin a little awkwardly, apologising to Vretan for the impromptu secret passageway he’d created and assuring him that it was all fixed now, and the meeting began in earnest.

Ezran reached out into mindspace and melded with Artaxa and Zym. The former had calmed down considerably, given an hour or two to sort things through, and was now sitting in a blanket with a cup of hot _kosarif_ \- chocolate was apparently poisonous to elves, but they had their substitutes.

 _“So,”_ Ezran said, speaking as well as thinking so that everyone would hear the conversation, _“after experimentation, a full purge is off-limits?”_

 _It would require more knowledge of Sky magic than we do,_ Zym replied, Ezran recounting his speech. _Perhaps a Sky mage, or… damn, Callum’s in Lux Aurea -_

_beside me._

Ezran and Zym remembered that Artaxa was there and existed in slightly stunned silence for a couple of seconds. Zym was the first to recover.

_… yep. That is a thing. Good work, Artaxa._

Artaxa concentrated herself, and the two were pulled across the space between minds into her own head. _She’s better than you, Zym,_ Ezran said jokingly, to which Zym grumbled.

Callum was mildly startled at the young Skywing girl sitting beside him pulling his hand insistently. He turned slightly and looked at Artaxa.

Artaxa’s parents had been comforting her for the past two hours. The first ten minutes had been trying to get a coherent explanation out of the girl as to what precisely had happened - the next hour had been a philosophy exercise that had taught Callum some new things - then there had been some hugging, and finally the blanket and hot drink. Gurian and Sofia sat beside her, arms around her shoulders, with Callum sitting off to the side.

Now, the young elf was leaning forward, tugging on Callum’s hand - well, not anymore. She’d got his attention.

Artaxa spoke. “King Ezran is wondering if you had any idea whether the corruption could be chased out permanently.”

“Permanently? It’s come back?” Callum sat back in his chair, Artaxa’s parents watching the two with a mixture of trepidation and quiet encouragement.

“It seems that they have a back-door that they can access whenever they want.” Artaxa seemed to be reciting something she’d heard from someone else, a common trait of untrue mind-melding. Ezran had described true mind-melding as simply being both people at once - untrue mind-melding brought the bound creatures into a single body, but kept the minds separate.

Callum leaned forward, placing his head on his hands and his elbows on his knees. “I think… Soren was stabbed by something, right? Something with a greenish-white substance on it?”

Artaxa threw up her arms. “Dammit, I knew there was something wrong with that report!” She scowled, pointedly returning her hands to her lap. “Sorry, Artaxa. But yes. There was.”

Callum nodded. “Soulfang venom. Properly cured and enchanted, it allows the backdoor you mentioned. Also allows the dark mage to channel energy into the controlled person’s eyes. 

I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait. The poison takes two to three weeks to leave the bloodstream.”

Vretan sighed as the meld ended. “Just as I thought.” 

Ezran’s head snapped up. “Thought the mages would come in handy. Speak up, Avrain.”

Avrain blinked as the eyes of every individual in the room settled on him. “Umm, I’m not sure if it’s possible, though. But Earth magic can manipulate known chemical substances. If I got a sample of that poison, I might be able to heal the Captain instantly.”

Soren thought for a second. “Where would you get that poison? I’m assuming you can’t just milk a Soulfang - you need the magical stuff, right?”

“Right…” Avrain said. “But there are avenues we can pursue to get that.”

Ella looked up sharply as two Crownguard entered the dungeon, then her cell. She tried to get up, but the girl - who couldn’t have been more than fifteen - gently rested the blade of her polearm in the wall above her head.

“This probably isn’t going to work,” the girl said cheerily, “but for the sake of Avrain’s conscience and my convenience, I’m going to just straight-up ask you.” She smiled evilly. “Where’s your base?”


	6. What Runs Beneath

Episode 6 - What Runs Beneath

* * *

_ Elast was the greatest boon I could have asked for, and a good friend. Though I know it was necessary, I was distraught to hear of his passing. I doubt I shall ever be the same person again - though for better or for worse remains to be seen. _

  * The Archmage Aaravos, _On Creative Aspects of Star Magic_ , circa 698 RSR



* * *

Chapter 1

Viren could see in pitch blackness. It was one of the things he’d found himself become able to do over the last twenty or so years - he hypothesised that it was a more refined version of the light he was still able to shine from his hands with little effort.

That was an invaluable aid to him in this endeavour.

Viren walked alone in cavernous cathedrals of gouged rock and rent stone. Every step he took echoed five audible times to the mage, clicks upon clicks clattering into what would be the unknown if Viren hadn’t the ability to easily pierce it.

Some things responded to those clicks.

The ground began to tremble beneath Viren’s feet, rightfully afraid. Cracks began to emerge, first fifty metres, then twenty metres, then ten metres, then no metres at all from Viren’s feet. He scowled and pulled an Earthblood horn from his robes, stabilising the rock beneath his boots.

It had been a simple equation, when the bodies had started piling up. Dead elves were littering the streets. It would be wasteful to leave their remains as they were.

Viren was distracted from the Earthblood’s horn as it began to flare up in embers, swirling white-hot lines eating away at the keratin, by a sight roughly as intricate but hundreds of times more majestic.

The cavern floor burst open fifty metres from Viren’s position, chunks of rock flying in all directions. The horn flared and lost half its weight as Viren halted the shards flying in his direction, gazing intently at the massive segmented body that now emerged from the hole.

Twenty-two years ago, Viren had been in possession of a manifestation of dark magic, created by Aaravos in his long days of imprisonment in order to be his agent in the world. It had spoken to Viren, shown him the way, acted as a conduit of his power, and finally served as the means by which Aaravos could create his own body - albeit a suboptimal one.

With Viren’s help, the two had refined that manifestation - utilising a method, stricture, which took advantage of minute instruction-threads, stricts, present in all creatures - and created something a little larger.

Viren studied the worm as it in turn studied him. This was apparently a vyrn, a variant that Claudia had hypothesised and then created by splicing in draconic stricts. These ones were smaller but quicker and better armoured and to cap it off, could exhale blasts of superheated air - not quite Sun dragons, for try as they might, stricture could not create an arcanum, but as close as they could get. The worms were truly majestic beasts - some thought their minor bug variants disgusting, but none would disparage these armoured beasts with legs that could crush stone and jaws larger than a man. These were true titans, on the level of dragons.

And three ordinary worms (although ‘ordinary’ was a severe injustice to them) were scuttling - no, that granted them no justice - charging out of tunnels to the east and west.

Viren raised his hand and spoke. “Zarian! Avizandum! Kesrala!”

The words reverberated down the tunnel - it seemed almost as if the cavern was a natural echo chamber for those words alone. The vibrations rocked through the worms, and they whispered, a terrifyingly human sound that sent thrills of excitement down Viren’s spine.

And suddenly, the worms were his.

Viren lashed out with his mind and seized upon their spinal cords, built to accept the guiding hand of a dark mage. They were such alien creatures, and yet so simple. They hungered, they feared, they triumphed. They were animals, just like humans. Just like elves.

Viren walked along the cavern floor, shouting the words, “Zarian! Avizandum! Kesrala!” triumphantly as more insects came out of the walls - some true worms like the ones behind him, others the size of horses or dogs, others the size of his palm and still others smaller. Before long, Viren stood at the centre of a morass of strictured marvel, calling the three words out and simultaneously laughing as he coordinated the entire crowd with expert flicks of his mind.

Viren eventually stood at the edge of a precipice, looking down at the caves that had been burrowed out below him through the bedrock. A small portion of Aaravos’ army waited behind him.

“Find the allies and bring them to me,” Viren said, and thousands of arthropods marched to his orders, splitting off down the various tunnel systems towards other areas of the continent, alerting the others that one dark mage had an extremely special message for them.

Viren sat down upon the precipice and continued stating the words - not shouting. Now that the worms would come to him, there was no need to exert himself.

He loved dark magic.

Aaravos watched from within his glass tower and smiled.

He never lied, and least of all to Viren, his most potent ally - no more an asset, Aaravos had relearned how to see things the human way during his time with them and found that way to be superior. This was a comfortable prison. A library, study room, testing grounds - it had been his residence before his prison, after all.

He looked over to the skeleton on the ground. He’d never cleaned it up - first, he had been too shocked and miserable to bother, then too respectful to move it. “Wish you could have been here to see this. To see how wrong you were about humans. Unfortunately, if you had been here, you would have quashed it as soon as possible. You never liked changes to the status quo.”

The skeleton didn’t respond. It never had, Aaravos thought jokingly. He had entertained the possibility that he might go mad in here and begin expecting it to answer, but had dismissed it as unimportant until he had to deal with it, and frankly, he never had to.

Viren’s influence spread underneath the Continent, and Aaravos took pride in his student.

* * *

Chapter 2

“Why do you think I’d tell you the location of our base?” Ella stated, steeling her gaze through the Crownguard’s eyes as her halberd gleamed in the torchlight above the captive’s head.

“Tia?” The Earthblood glanced at the half-elf, who held up a hand to hush him. The abomination knelt as Ella continued. “Huh. A half-Moonshadow brat. I wasn’t aware that Moonshadow elves wished to leave their secret conclaves in Xadia - nor that they possessed such empathy to… spawn things like you.”

This time, the hand was raised to keep the Earthblood savage back.

“There is a game, insurgent, played throughout history. Kings play it, knaves play it, knights play it, and now, we play it. Your move just now was futile. Now, those three – “the half-elf jerked a five-fingered hand in the direction of the lesser captives, keeping the other one on the handle – “would gladly give up whatever information they know if presented your head, still dripping blood. On the other hand, you know a lot more information.”

“My first question still stands, half-blood.”

“You’ll tell us the location of your base – and a lot more besides – because unlike those over there, you will have the opportunity to be inaccurate.”

Ella’s eyes attempted to drive daggers into those of the Crownguard, but to no avail – those ones were like water, shifting and washing over her steel-grey, barely affected by the gaze. It was not an uncommon trait, for others to have eyes like hers – those of High Mage Viren, for example, blazed with light that repelled her knives. Everyone who could did it differently, and you could figure things out from someone with the way they did it. This girl was apparently adept at simply shrugging aside what others thought of her – a good trait to have, for such a repellent creature.

“You’re telling me you would have me give up information in exchange for it being false?”

“Oh, it’ll be true in most particulars. We’ll check.” The girl called Tia – Ella filed away the name for future use – took an amulet from her neck and flicked it at Ella. Unable to rise and not wishing to make sudden movements with the halberd above her, Ella simply scowled as the small green sphere bounced off her head, followed by the length of thin chain.

As the amulet lay on the ground, it flickered – then her own head appeared above it, the chain transforming into the abrupt end of the neck.

Ella shrank back momentarily against the wall, then scowled and relaxed. _Don’t show weakness._

“Moonshadow magic,” the half-elf continued, scooping up the amulet and tapping it to dispel the illusion. “Usually, it’s used to get someone’s face and use it as your own, but it’s a pretty convincing severed head when not worn. They’ll talk. They’ll give the basics, and possibly some higher-level stuff they’ve picked up. And so will you – but you’ll have the opportunity to give out more, and the opportunity to lie about it. Deal?”

Ella tilted her head beneath the blade. “Deal.”

“So, what do you think she faked?”

It was a good question, Tiadrin thought as she walked underneath the mask of Ella’s face, still stored in the amulet. Better the citizens see an elf and a human, the two Crownguard had decided, than a living reminder of the fact that the two races were now, somewhat inseparably, joined.

She responded, Ella’s mouth moving with her own. “The location is almost certainly accurate – the grunts confirmed that. The general layout, the non-human defences – also almost certainly. It’s the human defences and the location of the venom that I’m worried about. But we should be able to get past those.”

Tiadrin focused on the setting Sun and flickered once, just to check. She wouldn’t be able to activate her Moonshadow form truly until the full moon rose, but it was a confirmation. She’d have her powers tonight – just as Avrain, deep underground, would be completely at home.

Avrain had always dealt with people shying away from him, all the way from hesitance at a touch to outright refusing to cross his path. That had always been the most frightening part to him – even the people who were genuinely friendly, who wanted to see elves and humans move forward together, often had to visibly force themselves to make physical contact. He’d heard that it was an old wives’ tale that Earthblood elves had so much poison running through their veins that they could kill you at a touch – it was apparently a very pervasive old wives’ tale.

He could deal with that now with people who he trusted; let alone with people he barely knew. The most feared bogeyman of his childhood had been defeated. Though what was left was barely better.

Stares, whispers, behind-the-back insults. They were travelling through a human part of Hinterpeak, and, though the Crownguard insignias on their breastplates meant something – as well as the polearms currently strapped to their backs – there was still a palpable air of distrust and malice that followed the two. Occasionally, little flare-ups occurred, and Avrain could see or hear what he’d only previously felt. A sneer here, a whispered word there. Something about babies. Stealing or eating, flip a coin.

And they were about to break into the home of a little old lady whose husband had been killed in the war. Perhaps _that’s_ why Ella had been so direct, so honest – elves desecrating the home of an elderly widow would stir up anti-Xadian sentiment in the city, and even if she was found out to be an Insurgency operative – no, _especially_ if she was found to be an Insurgency operative, a brave old woman protecting the resistance when nobody else would – that sentiment would most likely turn to rebellion.

Which was, of course, why Vretan had given the two full clearance to work without supervision, and Soren had given the two strict orders to make sure that supervision didn’t come from either side.

* * *

Chapter 3

Callum, Artaxa and Sofia were flying through a library. Fortunately, that library had high ceilings.

There were three parts to bringing the elves in the coins back to life. The first had been created by Artorc – a mechanism by which the ‘blueprint’ part of the coin’s structure, their chemical composition in precise detail, could be projected into the real world. The second was a simple melding of Earth and Moon magic, in which an Earth mage could use the projection to grow a body. Callum had, at times, bonded all three of the arcana he knew together – bonding two was a simple step, and one that was done regularly, although Moonshadow elves were a little insular.

The third was, of course, the trickiest, and Callum didn’t even know if it was possible. So the three were searching for a book that would tell them.

“Frangeline… Frovelif… wait I’m going the wrong way, we need Floreion!” Artaxa changed direction near 180 degrees with a flick of her wings and darted off as Sofia began to make her way through the aisle beside it. This was technically the ‘recent magical theory’ section, but Callum had seen, on occasion, treatises from before the Severance, what had until recently been called the Mage Wars by humanity and the Judgment of the Half-Moon by the elves. He assumed that ‘recent magical theory’ just meant ‘anything that hasn’t been categorically disproven yet’.

They’d asked the High Mage about his experiments, of course, and that was why they were finding his book on the matter. Floreion had been primarily working in keeping souls in their bodies, and although he’d produced conclusive results on the matter regarding soul transference, he’d dismissed the findings as unimportant, especially when compared with new Sun magic constructs that allowed victims to survive otherwise mortal wounds if kept properly immobilised.

“Found the FLs!”

That was Sofia, triumphantly shouting from five storeys up. The library was structured with railed walkways set in lazily inclining spirals around the massive triangular bookshelves, of which there were dozens reaching like tree-trunks into the roof. Callum and Artaxa looked up from their hovering position around the FQs (Sunfire naming traditions were beyond Callum), then almost simultaneously beat their wings to ascend to the position of Artaxa’s mother.

Flangerion, Flanska, Flanvilar… The three moved as one down the columns, Callum dismissing his wings and the mother and daughter effectively blocking the walkway with theirs. Flpheas - only one FLP, which was mildly surprising to Callum, having seen some of the other names. Floravor, Flordrana… Floreion!

Apparently, none of Floreion’s work had been categorically disproven, because it was all here - it took up almost a row on its own, and that wasn’t including borrowed books. The specific title was ‘On the Energy of Souls’, which was among a vast number of ‘On the’s crammed together. Within a few seconds, the three had found it – a slim volume, sadly without a table of contents, bound in black leather with gold leaf patterning – Moonshadow elves appeared to be the only ones to embrace a vegetarian lifestyle.

Callum thanked the two Skywings for their help, then dropped to the ground – his Sky rune of _Caelum teneo_ , ‘hold the sky’ (in Rayla’s somewhat inaccurate translation, ‘keep Callum alive’), forming a ball of immovable air around him as he impacted the ground. It was a strange sensation, that of your entire body stopping at once – your body braced for some sort of jolt and then rather sheepishly unravelled itself when none came. Callum stepped from the ball through a gaggle of rather surprised students and sat down on a bench to read.

It was three hours later before the human mage finally admitted to himself that it was impossible. Aaravos sympathised. Once, he too had thought nothing impossible.

The sunset streamed through the enormous windows that lined the library, empty of glass with great shutters that would be closed in case of rain. To his true form, the sunlight would have been no problem at all. To the insects that he was controlling, though, it was a hindrance. He’d long tried to overcome the boundaries that stricture imposed – but it was dark magic, and thematically, if inexplicably, that meant it didn’t deal well with light.

He knew Viren disliked his smaller helpers, but as he puppeted these ones’ body from the space within the mirror, he didn’t understand why. They moved with the same mechanisms, saw with the same eyes, ate with the same jaws. It was simply a matter of scale.

These ones had been moving a book.

It had been arduous work, for small insects barely the size of an elvish hand to move an entire book all the way from the A’s. The first task had been to get it down from the shelf – a simple push had sent it tumbling over the railing and to the floor. Thankfully, the fall hadn’t damaged the thing, especially as it had landed upon a carpet of cushions he’d set up using other insects. From there, it had been a stealthy crawl across the floorboards of the library until finally, they’d reached Callum’s seat.

The mage was staring at the opposite wall. Sun magic, of course, was amazing at sending energy to specific locations, keeping it in stasis, letting it loose in bursts of radiance and feats of strength – but it couldn’t keep a structure such as a soul together, not even for the short distances required to transfer from a _korkyra_ prison to a potential body. There was one method that Aaravos knew of completing this transfer without dark magic – and it involved magic that could intricately bond with a soul, analyse and understand it. Star magic.

Aaravos watched as Callum saw the book. Picked it up. Saw the name, and tested it with his Key. Aaravos smiled in genuine amusement – of course the mage would use the Key of Aaravos to assess a book written by Aaravos.

Callum began to read. Excellent.

* * *

Chapter 4

The poor mage, Callum thought as he read what were clearly rudimentary principles of dark magic, extrapolated from Star magic. He’d been told that dark magic was an offshoot of Star magic, but he’d never understood the links between them until now.

Aaravos had clearly been a pioneer, working ahead of his time, and like all pioneers – like himself, Callum thought ruefully – he thought it his right to overturn tradition and break the taboos of his age. The majority of the book was composed of treatises on space-time manipulation – interesting for magical theory nowadays but ultimately useless, as the Star arcanum had been lost three hundred years ago in an event so heinous not even the dragons spoke of it. Some said they did not remember it.

The part that caught Callum’s eye, though, was the section towards the back that focused primarily on soul manipulation.

The yellowed pages crackled slightly as he turned them with a gentle hand, but otherwise remained sound, the last rays of the day’s sunlight streaming through their upright sails before they fell onto the other side of the book.

The section on soul manipulation shattered Callum’s hopes. Reading through it, seeing concepts used that defied the creation/destruction aspects of Sun magic, focusing on mutation, change and the sole rule that, on a fundamental level, it was impossible to destroy certain things that were used as anchor points for the journey almost forced him to tears. Sun magic would never allow that. The hope that he’d carried – that Rayla had carried – for the last few weeks had almost run out.

He turned a page and his brow crinkled in puzzlement, for lying in front of him on the page was a mirror. A familiar mirror.

When Callum had cleared out Viren’s study, he’d been puzzled by this mirror. He had thought it merely a keepsake, perhaps some form of Primal prison – the runes around the outside were clearly Star runes of containing and binding, he hadn’t even needed another mage to confirm that, although what one could imprison in the surface of a mirror was beyond him. Perhaps a two-dimensional entity, he had joked to himself. It hadn’t radiated any sort of magic, though, which was why he’d forgotten about it. Most likely, he’d thought, the runes were decorative – it was probably some pithy saying about capturing a moment or something.

How wrong he’d been.

 _I was trained in my youth largely by a Repository,_ the text continued underneath the picture, _before they were all destroyed by my kin. The idea was to use soul-binding magic to contain a wealth of information, such that an entire city’s worth of data could be contained within a single mirror – and when the amount of information grew heavy, the Startouch mages found that they grew their own souls – organically. It was a major leap forward in our understanding of life, and the Repositories quickly and seemingly happily took on roles as curators of information, seeking to gather and to share more._

_This is why they were so dangerous._

_Repositories existed to gather and share information, and they pursued that goal to the exclusion of all others. Eventually, their many treasons were realised – they had been exceedingly clever, seeding doom among us by information alone – and every single one was destroyed._

_We hope._

Callum put down the book. That elf said that he had been _trained_ by a Repository. Could it be…

Could they do what Lujanne had, and train an arcanum _into_ someone?

Callum had woken up this morning earlier than Rayla, which was quite a feat.

She flipped out of bed, landing catlike on the sheets and instantly alert as he packed. Apparently, the idiot was going back to Katolis to check out Viren’s old full-length mirror for some reason.

Rayla was used to this sort of abrupt scheduling. It was a fact of their shared existence – she had to work around diplomacy, Callum around whatever magic was happening at that point, and both of them around their children. This was an unorthodox solution to the constant juggling act, but it’d work for the time being. Callum had said he’d have to get the mirror into Lux Aurea secretly – something about it being dangerous and unstable, of course.

Callum finished packing, came up to the bed and gave Rayla a quick peck on the lips. He was stopped by Rayla’s iron grip as he turned around. “Uh-uh, you know the rules for cross-Breach flights,” she admonished, and Callum grinned and settled into a passionate kiss.

“Stay safe, sky.” Rayla hugged him with roughly an eighth of her might. She’d found that was optimal hugging strength.

“You know me, night.” Callum hugged back, then stepped to the balcony, vaulting onto the railing. “Manus! Pluma! VOLANTIS!” The wings exploded from his arms as he looked back. “I won’t promise to stay safe. But I’ll promise to stay alive.”

Rayla waved as Callum dropped off the tower, winging his way westward away from the rising sun.

Aaravos watched as the mage set up Sun revelatory spells, Everlast flames glittering in the underground room where the mirror had languished, empty these past 22 years. Then he concentrated, feeling beneath the room, feeling for one of his worms – one that hadn’t heeded the call to travel to Del Bar and pay homage to the new king.

As Aaravos breathed in, so too did the worm. The worms secreted a gas that degraded the rock around them and made it porous, allowing it to be broken easier and allowing air through. That was but one of their many talents.

Aaravos breathed out, speaking in a clear voice. And so too did the worm.

“Extinguish the lights, mage. I work best in darkness.”

That would have been a lie if he were an actual Repository. This was where Aaravos could work best – so deep in the tangle of half-truths and dissimulations that he could say whatever he wanted and it would work as well as an outright lie.

Callum started, then took out the flames. Shutting the door, he was suddenly lit by the brilliance of the mirror.

Aaravos smiled and spoke, his words reflected by the worm outside.

“How may I serve you, mage?”

* * *

Chapter 5

The moon rose above the mountains of Hinterpeak, and Tiadrin turned nigh-invisible. Her silver outline grinned as she motioned for Avrain to take her hand and work his own magic.

Avrain leaned on a wall, checking for passers-by (of which there were none) and holding Tiadrin’s hand tightly, and gripped as hard as he could as he fell through the wall with some considerable effort, pulling the half-elf through.

They had been watching this house for the last two hours, piecing together the puzzle. The old woman who ran the shop in front of the house apparently spent most of her day in the shop, then retired to her bedroom, on the second storey, at night – at least, that was the most Avrain’s nose was able to obtain, with those being the two most old-womany areas of the house.

They just had to hope that the woman had chosen to retire for the night, pressed for time as they were – and as they stepped through, they saw that she at least wasn’t waiting with a broom. Tiadrin narrowed her eyes as she crouched, motioning for a heavily-breathing Avrain to take the position behind her – although it wasn’t really required, given he’d come up with the plan – and cautiously opened the door, peering around it as a wisp of smoke, a beam of moonlight.

You needed a bit of self-discipline to maintain the Moonshadow form, of course. Believing yourself incorporeal, half-smoke, not really there but watching from the shadows, helped immensely. Tiadrin began to slip through the rooms of the house, acting like a gust of wind. Totally unlike her usual demeanour. Totally perfect for the Moonshadow form.

They emerged from the back storeroom into a sort of kitchen – Tiadrin achieved the next door before she beckoned Avrain forward from his concealed position. From there into a dining room – Tiadrin wove underneath the table and through the chairs for a reason even she didn’t know – a pull, an urge. _Pass an equal number of legs on both sides of you_ , the urge said, _but don’t touch any of them_. There were lots of little rules like this in Tiadrin’s life – it was easy to stick to most of them, so she didn’t usually bother to resist.

Avrain watched tensely as she threaded the needles under the table, but she rolled her eyes and beckoned him. Silly boy, thinking she, the great Tiadrin Raylasdottir, would be defeated by a chai –

Tiadrin held out a hand, stopping Avrain in his tracks.

A fire burned in the chimney in the next room. She’d been stupid not to see it – the chairs may not have defeated her, but they had distracted her, and that was almost the same thing. A rocking chair sat in front of the fire, two human legs dangling from it.

Behind the rocking chair, there was a rug.

“Bingo,” Avrain whispered from behind her, and she turned and pushed him hurriedly out of sight, returning to look at the scene. It was possible that they might be able to get to the trapdoor unseen, but would they manage to get the rug off? Open the trapdoor? Close the trapdoor? They certainly wouldn’t be able to replace the rug…

Tiadrin’s hand came into contact with her disguise necklace, and a stupid idea came to her.

“Avrain,” she whispered, turning to the somewhat annoyed Earthblood elf who’d only got a glance before being rudely shoved off to the side, “could you make up a story about getting Earthblood armour from you, who you killed?”

“What?”

Tiadrin took off the amulet and gave it to Avrain. “Disguise yourself as Ella and tell her to open the trapdoor. I’ll follow invisibly.”

“You seem to have forgotten the rather crucial fact that I am male. Lower voice, higher… height, smaller… you know.” Avrain moved his hand in front of his reshwood breastplate.

“Okay, first, the amulet changes voices, second, you’re similar heights, third, you’re wearing a man’s armour which… changes things, and fourth, she’s got poor eyesight. I saw her squinting in the shop.”

“You want to stake our lives on the questionable nature of someone’s eyesight?” Avrain looked out at the slowly rocking chair in front of the fire.

“Please. She’s an old woman. She could hardly stab us.”

“Oh, Ella, you’re back! They told me you had a low chance of escape, but I always believed in my girl.”

Tiadrin had been technically correct, Avrain shrugged as he pulled the crossbow bolt out from his armour – and they knew one piece of information she’d given them that was true. Her name was Ella.

The old woman put the crossbow down on the chair and embraced Avrain. Apparently, she did have bad eyesight.

“Killed some elves, stole their armour and this.” Avrain tapped the amulet twice, deactivating the illusion. “See? Makes an illusion. Moonshadow scum didn’t need this, so I took it.” He activated the amulet again, smiling down at the old woman. Time for a gamble. Ella had said there was a secret name that agents of the Insurgency used for contacts like this one. Of course, it varied from person to person. “How have things been going, Varya?”

The old woman smiled. “Not badly. The shop’s as busy as it’s ever been, and the recruitment’s going better than planned. We’re getting high numbers of Guard members picking their sides on the down-low too. I assume the mission was a success?”

Avrain tensed slightly as he saw a flash of silver underneath a chair – then relaxed. Ella had given the correct name. “Not yet. But the Captain of the Crownguard is compromised. If we can break him out and give him a team sometime in the next fortnight…”

Varya nodded. “Events proceed apace. You’ll be wanting to go down below, won’t you?” Avrain helped the woman with the rug, then pulled open the trapdoor. He turned to the old woman, patting her on the shoulder and locking eyes with her as the outline of a Moonshadow half-elf slipped into the passageway. “Thanks, Varya. Burning with Elarion.”

“Burning with Elarion,” the woman replied, and with that, Avrain was through the trapdoor, inside the complex and instantly on high alert.

Claudia was woken from her sleep – she couldn’t find the time to stay awake these days, even with hot brown morning potion, something which troubled her – by the doorwoman Karysta’s voice.

“Intruder used Ella’s face and my panic name. Most likely an Earthblood elf. Most likely going for the venom.”

Claudia nodded and rose from her pallet, choosing a suitable outfit for catching traitors to humanity.

* * *

Chapter 6

“Before you ask,” the Mage Artorc said, not looking up from the jeweller’s tools he was manipulating the coins with, “I’ve made absolutely no headway. I was thinking that information transfer might be able to be done for the soul as well as the body, but I’m having problems with perfect transfer. For things like cell structure, a few errors on the atomic level here and there are fine, but a soul needs to remain together throughout the transfer. I can’t copy and paste like I’m doing with the body.”

Rayla picked up the sleeping form of her father. Gods above, she looked almost as old as he did now. She _was_ , she realised with a slightly panicked start. She was nearly forty, and he’d been forty-five. What were they going to say when they got out?

A tumble of warring _ifs_ and _whens_ flooded her mind and she put the coin down hard, dispelling the argument from her brain. _We shall see_ if _it went to plan_ when _it happens. And that is all._ Her rebellious mind subsided somewhat.

She couldn’t tell Artorc about Callum’s plans, of course, had to keep him in the dark about the forbidden dangerous artifact that Callum was going to use to help teach him a forgotten form of magic. That man. Brilliant, loving, kind, but ask him to stick to rules for his own safety and the next thing you knew, he’d broken all of them and given you cause to write about fifty new ones specifically to outlaw things he’d done. She’d made up some story about Callum going back to scour the library for old Moon techniques – Artorc had grunted and said he wouldn’t find any.

Oscar wandered into the room, carrying a small adjuster for some form of magical amplifier. Artorc thanked the young man and screwed it in, focusing a beam of misty particles onto the obsidian shard which contained Queen Janai’s sleeping form, one point of the octagon. One of the Sunfire elves had objected to the shard being only part of the ritual octagon which allowed accurate assessment of magic levels within the shards, stating that it should be in the centre with the Moonshadow elves surrounding it. Callum had simply stated, ‘I could buy more with the coins’ and left it at that.

“Your son’s been a big help,” Artorc continued as Oscar pulled up a chair, climbing up on it to watch. “I… he’s not picking up Moon magic, though. I don’t know why, he’s got a strong magical signature. What I’d expect from a mage’s child, but…”

Rayla smiled and tousled Oscar’s hair. “Hasn’t he told you? He’s got a Sky arcanum. Not an ounce of Moon magic in his body.”

“That’s… strange,” Artorc murmured, looking over Oscar’s evidently Moonshadow features as the boy pouted. “Mummy, it was a _secret_.”

Artorc existed in stunned silence, then sighed, shook his head and pointed a well-manicured finger at the boy, who immediately burst into laughter. “I’ve been trying to teach that boy illusion spells all damn morning, I’d like to tell you. You sure he’s only got a Sky arcanum?”

“Absolutely. The Key glows Sky only when it’s presented to him. Callum glows three ways, so we’d know.” Rayla grinned and left the still-chuckling small boy and the considerably annoyed mage to their tasks. She needed to finish the proposal for the opening of a second cross-breach channel, a task that was proving onerous even though it seemed to be what everyone wanted. It was just being bogged down in bureaucracy like any other, she told herself –

“General Amaya, Commander Gren,” she said, halting and bowing respectfully as she opened the door to the watchful faces of the two soldiers, “I’m afraid we’ve still made no headway.” Amaya nodded solemnly and signed, _I was expecting that. I was actually wondering whether we might be able to spar a little. Like the old days._ Gren dutifully translated – Rayla had never gotten the hang of sign.

Rayla breathed out a little. “I’d like that very much.”

It was a solid half-hour before the first blow was struck.

Both Amaya and Rayla had, of course, trained using sets – sequences of moves done in reaction to other moves to gain an advantage over an opponent. The trouble was, some sets looped back on each other, others had counters to their counters to their counters, and still others had counters that you knew you couldn’t stand to, so you slipped away. It produced a frustrating weave of measure-countermeasure that was physically exerting and mentally stimulating, if not spiritually rewarding.

Finally, Amaya capitalised on the slight lowering of Rayla’s guard due to her lower stamina – prolonged fights like this usually preferred the human, as the fact that their muscle tissue didn’t compact meant that blood vessels could much more easily replenish their oxygen – and feinted to the legs. Rayla, of course, took the bait – blocking a strike to the legs would come with relief from dropping her arms – and the back of Amaya’s flipped training sword swung in, tapping her on the ear.

They always fought to first strike. They most likely wouldn’t survive a count of 21 like most fighters.

Gren called the halt, and the two shook hands and put away their training weapons.

“I think I can start calling you spry now, can’t I? That’s what agile old-timers are called?” Rayla smiled as she placed her right hook in her left hand and shook. Amaya grunted and signed, _Sixty isn’t old-timer yet. I’m exercising, eating healthily – I’ve got quite a bit of life left in me yet._

That wasn’t quite true, of course – her time spent around Sunfire elves, Janai had told her, was actually significantly improving her lifespan. Something about their healing capabilities.

Something must have alerted Rayla to the fact that she was thinking about Janai, because she felt a three-fingered hand on her shoulder and found a smiling, _kaldari_ ed face in front of her own. Rayla looked into Amaya’s eyes and said, “If there’s anyone who can bring Janai back, it’s Callum. He’s the most brilliant mage of our time.”

Amaya sighed, tapped her pinkie on her right cheek twice and walked off. She didn’t need to look behind her to see Rayla turning to Gren in puzzlement, and Gren translating sadly.

“If.”

* * *

Chapter 7

Callum spoke. “You’re a Repository, an incredibly dangerous and possibly inherently malevolent receptacle of knowledge supposedly destroyed by the Startouch elves centuries, perhaps millennia ago. And yet you’re here.”

It was a Startouch elf that gazed back at him out of the mirror – which was understandable, for elves to create people who resembled them when they crafted these stores of information. The Repository gave no indication of being offended by the blunt statement. Rather, it – he? – nodded and responded.

“You may call me Elast. I am indeed one of those supposedly destroyed – and yet, I am not. It is curious how life finds a way, and I am quite alive.”

Callum sighed and narrowed his eyes. He’d read that Repositories were incapable of knowingly lying, which allegedly only made them more dangerous, given they based their deceptions off half-truths and clever wordings which made sentences sound profound or useless when in fact they were the opposite.

He recognised the name. It wasn’t hard – when he memorised something, he was unlikely to forget it. Ever. He wished he hadn’t memorised the anatomy book he’d read when he was thirteen about the reproductive system.

“You trained the mage Aaravos? Or was that another Elast?”

The Repository started. “It… was the Elast who came before me who trained the mage Aaravos. I am his… inheritor? His replacement. I know what he used to.”

“And you can grant me that knowledge?”

“I live to serve, human. I can offer you both knowledge… and power.”

Callum shrugged. “I have enough power.” The Repository seemed almost taken aback, but rallied and responded. “Knowledge, then. What knowledge do you require?”

Callum reached into his pocket and took out the coin.

The coin seemed inexplicably unreal, especially when held in the hand. The edges were too sharp, the faces too smooth – it was possible, and common, to cut oneself on the edges of the extradimensional space within the walls where the souls were stored. As well as this, the coin was inexplicably light, as if its weight were somehow being used to fuel part of the enchantment.

“What do you know of these?”

The Repository – Elast – studied the metal circle.

To any normal human – Gods take it, to any normal elf – there would have been no change to Elast’s demeanour, but Callum’s Moon arcanum was capable of dissecting information as it came to his corneas and auricles and magnifying it to ten, a hundred times its usual level of detail – to be able to fake something realistically, one had to be able to study it realistically. It was a source of puzzlement to Callum that the enhanced senses elves had – Sunfire Elves able to dimly sense others’ pain, Skywing Elves blessed with accurate judgment of air currents, Moonshadow Elves given the power to judge detail to a hair’s accuracy – all seemed to help them with their magic, but otherwise be completely unrelated to it.

A Moonshadow elf would be able to judge someone’s muscles tensing before they got up from their chair, would be able to discern the difference in screams that would tell whether a birth was going well or badly, would be able to pick out a running human from miles away – but Callum’s Moon arcanum was stronger, and he could see more. Even underneath Elast’s starry skin, blood vessels dilated under full supervision of the mage, and his pupils contracted ever-so-slightly. Callum heard the slightly-increased breathing speed and knew that the Repository was, at least mildly, frightened.

Although he could dissemble and obscure the truth, one thing Elast had to keep completely honest was his form. And Callum could use the pieces of biology that the Repository couldn’t control against him.

Elast spoke dispassionately – a little too dispassionately, in Callum’s ears. “That is a form of destruction devised by dark mages towards the end of the Age of Elarion. With a soul, and the projection of a body to hold it in, a dark mage could keep something with an arcanum on… indefinite storage, as it were. In coin form, with its power being able to be accessed at any time, in any capacity. There would be no need to, for example, harvest a Moonshadow heart – one could simply… soul-trap a Moonshadow elf and take the heart’s Arcanum Store when you needed it.

That’s what you’re holding, although I suspect you know that already, given the Skywing runes on your arms and the Moonshadow insets into your robes. You are an interesting human - relations between you and the elves must have improved considerably. Are you merely an enthusiast, or a scholar?”

Callum scratched a Sun rune, then a Moon rune, then a Sky rune in the air with his free hand.

Shock shivered through Elast’s constructed body. “A… an Unbound. I have met only one of those before – and he achieved it through centuries of meditation. Of course, beginning with no arcanum must help, but even so… You are a fascinating individual. Might I know your name?”

Callum smiled. It wouldn’t hurt to tell the mirror his name – in fact, it would strengthen the bond between them. Aaravos had written that, although the Repositories were evil, they often fell into the trap of forming long-lasting relational bonds – and Callum was going to use that.

“Callum, High Mage of Katolis. I seek a method to transfer a soul to a body from one of these coins. Can it be done?”

The Repository’s face fell. “I am afraid… not by anyone currently on this planet. Soul manipulation… that falls under the purview of Star magic, and there are no Star mages with you. Trapped in the last second of old Elast’s memory of the outside world – the knowledge that the Star mages would fall extinct. But there is a way.”

Callum had turned away in disgust – his head snapped back. “What?”

“You are Unbound. I am a source of knowledge. Although it was never taught to me – deemed irrelevant, as it was seen as impossible to accomplish in old Elast’s days –

I might be able to teach you the Star arcanum.”

* * *

Chapter 8

Amaya turned into an alcove and sat, placing her sword in front of her.

On campaign, she had often done this – almost placing Janai’s soul into the sword, her breath seeming to curl off the blade with the steam, the blade patterned with the same vibrant colours as Janai’s _magmalar_. It had apparently been a masterpiece, as all Sunforged blades were.

Amaya had dubbed it Peacekeeper – it had only been because Janai had told her all Sunforged blades had a name, for Amaya wasn’t one for superstition and had simply never named a blade. That name was now an inter-species icon of hope and justice, which was at least something.

To her, the name represented a way of life – making decisions together with someone, drawing on each other’s support, wisdom and love – that she might never return to.

Amaya clenched her fists, straining the leather gauntlets that were more to protect her hand from blisters than anything else – her sword’s hilt and shield both did well to protect her fingers from assault. She was better than this! How many times had she told her soldiers to be strong when their allies fell? How many times had she seen her soldiers push through the deaths of their squadmates, their friends, their lovers, and emerge out the other side? Was she a hypocrite, exhorting strength when she herself was weak?

It had been in all the books – freezing at someone else’s death was the moment of your own. She’d saved lives with that doctrine. She knew how important it was. So _why_ couldn’t she follow it?

Amaya felt unworthy of the soldiers who’d lost their partners to war.

Movement. Amaya barely moved, flicking her eyes up to judge the threat. A lot of soldiers got jumpy after time spent in battle, every sound or sudden appearance met with a momentary shock through their body as they tried to assess whatever might be trying to kill them. It had hit Amaya bad after Sarai’s death, with loud thumps and cracks of thunder, but she’d gotten it down to a mental shock, training her body not to respond to the stimuli unless she was actually wary of attack.

It was the High Mage, and, it seemed, a few of his friends.

Amaya watched as what seemed like a third of the entire Consulate filed into the room without a door and took seats on the low bench that ran around the outside of the circle. High Mage Floreion was the last to walk in, taking a position at the door – before him walked a familiar and not unwelcome sight, although their downcast demeanour and signed _I’m sorry_ put Amaya straight back on her guard.

What could this be? Amaya and Janai had planned in case a coup were to take place, though they’d both thought it unlikely that the human would outlive the elf. Amaya couldn’t be legally punished by anyone but Janai – a safeguard against usurpers who would try to cut off loyalists to the old throne. How dare they drag Kazi into this. How could they not know their own law?

Perhaps they’d found a loophole.

The thought chilled Amaya, but as she looked on, she realised that these weren’t her detractors. The High Mage should have tipped her off to that. In fact, sitting among the elves were the two lawmakers, Igni and Vatis – who’d streamlined the process of getting a human named Queen Consort – almost all of the faction of the Consulate that was actively pro-human, and the entire mage contingent. These were the people who most approved of Amaya.

Amaya sat back, and waited for their play.

Floreion gestured for Kazi to begin, and they launched into what he was sure was the greatest speech never heard.

The young Sunfire – introduced to this mess when they were thirty-three, it had been almost a scandal when Janai had picked them above far older elves to act as her interpreter – had risen to prove their true value. They had been called the Flpheas of linguistics by those who could pronounce the name Flpheas, and they had been the only one the Consulate had respected when they tore up the speech and said that flowery language like that would never hold up in sign.

They and Floreion had negotiated for the final script – not precisely willingly on Kazi’s part, but they couldn’t disobey a direct order from the Consulate. The amount of so-called flowery language in it pleased neither Kazi nor the Consulate, which was, Floreion had noted drily, the hallmark of a well-made compromise.

It outlined several things, including elvish law, the need for stability in troubling times, the value of self-sacrifice and the restoration of power to those who could wield it best, and a single plea – that Amaya support their bid to instate her as Queen.

After what seemed like forever, Kazi lowered their arms, breathing a little heavily from their performance. Amaya looked steadily at her and signed a little.

Kazi broke down into laughter. Ripples of unease went through the entire assembly. Floreion looked sharply at the interpreter, who spoke.

“A lot of trouble could have been saved if you’d listened when I told you what she’d say, word-for-word, when you asked me to do this.

 _It’s a terrible idea._ ”

* * *

Chapter 9

The throne room of Lux Aurea had, until recently, been in the process of being rebuilt. Even now, there were restorers’ scaffolds along the gold-white pillars, now arranged in sharp geometric patterns that supposedly gave structural integrity to the material, although Amaya wasn’t sure why they needed to justify themselves beyond the obvious aesthetic value it gave. As well as this, something had been recently bolted into the ceiling – a massive wrought-iron structure, within which were the biggest glass panels that Amaya had ever seen, ordered immediately by Janai when the mages had developed this new technique of glass production two years ago. The structure arched directly across the dome, offering a wide view of the sky – and letting in direct sunlight for most of the year, save around midsummer when audiences would be held under the open sky and around midwinter when they would be held in less breezy chambers.

Janai had been so excited at the prospect of being able to look into the Sun all day. The discomfort Amaya felt as she stepped into the light was a further reminder of that. She looked away from the light and signed to Kazi, who translated.

_You see? I am wife to your Queen, and her brilliance sometimes blinds me. I cannot be Queen to your people. I am not suited to the light._

Floreion sighed and waved his hand, bending the light so it fell on him and not Amaya. “We would never presume to ask you to head our faith, General. That task can only fall to Sunfire elves.” He sighed. “But those qualified to do so are uniquely _un_ qualified to rule. You are the master tactician who can keep this country aloft, and you have a claim to the throne. It’s your duty to take it.”

_You seem to have a more optimistic viewpoint than I do on how I am able to fulfil my duty._

“General Amaya, now is not the time for self-pity. Now, with the Dark Insurgency returning, in force enough to destroy the Queen of the Sunfire Elves? Now is the time for a strong leader. An empty throne is a grave danger, and you are the best ruler the Sunfire Elves could have hoped for.”

 _An empty throne presents a grave danger._ Amaya smiled and lowered her gaze. _Someone once said that to me, soon after the killing of a king that left a kingdom in chaos. Guess who that is._

Floreion thought for a second. “Someone in a position of power within Katolis after Harrow’s death who wanted a new ruler quickly who still exists… oh.”

_The reason that throne is now empty. I would advise you not to be hasty with your decisions, High Mage. However noble your aims – and unlike a lot of people, I now realise that Viren was… honourable, after a fashion, before his fall – know that going against rightful rule never ends well, and neither do rash decisions about who should lead a country._

“You believe that we would commit the same atrocities that dark magicians did off the decision to _choose a ruler quickly_?”

_One of the defining traits of my relationship with your Queen, Floreion, was that we understood that elves are no different to humans. Perhaps you should remember that, trying as you are to instate a human on the throne of an elvish nation. There will be dissidents – there will be thousands of dissidents, and some of them will be powerful enough to kill._

Amaya sighed. _It is impossible for me to be your Queen – both because the real Queen is still alive and because I am not an elf. If you wish to pursue my rule, be it only as Regent until such time as Janai returns._

“You speak as if you are sure that she will.”

Amaya’s hand flashed to her sword-hilt, and in response, Floreion settled into a battle-stance. Kazi ran between the two, holding up their hands and shouting in some language neither of them understood – they often did that under stress.

 _I… apologise,_ Amaya signed once Kazi was assured that the General and High Mage were not about to kill each other. _But I cannot afford to be anything other than sure – even though I’m not. Please understand that._

Amaya stalked out of the throne room. Her left hand was still shaking slightly. She needed to visit the healers again.

* * *

Chapter 10

A labyrinth of intersecting natural caves and unnatural tunnels lay before the two, Avrain carefully feeling his way through fifty metres ahead of the pair. The Earthblood ability to feel the health, composition and presence of soil had always seemed a rather useless one to Avrain, but he was grateful for it now.

It was a regularly consistent game of cat-and-mouse down in the tunnels – except the cats didn’t know the mice were there, and there was a considerably higher number of cats than mice. Too often, Avrain found himself sinking into walls to evade pursuers – the mechanics were much the same as sinking through a wall, except you didn’t have to brace for impact at the end – and Tiadrin was forced to activate her Moonshadow form. At least that wasn’t tiring, although it carried with it a higher risk of being seen.

Tiadrin beckoned Avrain into a store-room and bolted the door from the inside, lighting a torch for better vision. Although Tiadrin could apparently see shades of black (which, along with her ability to remain alert, usually put her on guard duty against her will), Avrain required light to see things like a normal person.

Before them, in an open crate, were vials of… something. There were about twenty, nestled in wool for safe transportation. Avrain took a vial, inspected it, and drank it.

The two had discussed the method that Earth mages used to identify and learn poisons. Apparently, Tiadrin was still a little bit uncomfortable with the fact that it had to be drunk to learn how to cure it. To be honest, Avrain thought, restoppering the vial and placing it back in the wool, imbibing a poison was usually the way to be killed by it.

It surged through his veins for a split second, and suddenly its structure was laid out before Avrain like pieces on a chessboard. He mentally plucked at a strand, experimenting… there! There was the arcanum signature – the venom acted as a magical drain, usually allowing a soul to pass through into the negative area within the Soulfang, but with correct curing, could exist as a back-door rather than a drain, leaving the soul in there, but allowing manipulation from another soul.

If the venom was in the bloodstream, the soul could be tampered with.

Avrain nodded to Tiadrin, then froze as the door glowed purple and then slammed against the far wall with a _crack_ , a single woman striding in and staring at them with glowing purple eyes, long white hair, and the beginnings of magical decay on her face.

This was a monster from their nightmares, a wraith that Captain Soren had told them to fear as one of the epitomes of dark magic. He’d literally told them stories about his sister to get them to go to sleep and do their drills, as a bogeywoman who came in the night to steal unhelpful Crownguard.

They hadn’t believed him.

Avrain did now.

The hide of a Gorehorn smouldered on Claudia’s shoulders as she burst through the door. She couldn’t cast other spells while she was smoking the hide, but with the strength of a rhinoceros-sized magical beast and the weight of a slim, fit practitioner of dark magic, she was agile and powerful enough to not care about that. The motes of tracking that had stuck to the door clouded around the two – one little-known fact about the family tracking spell was that you didn’t need a great height, just a height advantage.

The Earthblood elf wearing the guise of the operative panicked before the half-elf – Karymna hadn’t mentioned a half-elf, nor a half-Moonshadow at that – pulled him out of the shock and pressed him against the wall. They fell through into the outside hallway and ran, Claudia’s enhanced ears picking up their rush.

That half-Moonshadow… that was Callum’s daughter, wasn’t she? Claudia snarled in bestial delight – she felt smoking the Gorehorn affected her mental faculties, she’d have to check that later – and bounded off down the corridor after the two.

Oh, the things she could do with a hostage like _that_.

Tiadrin ran and activated her Moonshadow form, silvery zephyr grace replacing the soldier she’d been. She’d had to practise to use it indoors, but the rewards were rich.

Avrain grabbed an operative coming down the other way and screamed something about Gorehorn hide – whatever Gorehorn hide was – and the mage going crazy. The operative’s eyes bugged as he saw the aforementioned mage barrelling down the corner at extreme speed and turned to run.

They split up at the next intersection, the operative heading down while Avrain and Tiadrin went up.

Claudia was gaining quickly on them, especially on the uphill slope. Tiadrin grabbed Avrain’s shoulder and they turned to face the beast behind, unshouldering their halberds.

It was a fight uphill, against two halberd-wielders, in a narrow passageway. Tiadrin and Avrain could afford to stand back-to-back, working together as a pair just like Soren had taught them to foil and confuse their opponent. They had the advantage of teamwork, higher ground, a narrow passageway and the reach of their weapons. It would be a pushover.

It was a fight between barely powered individuals, one with the power to sink into stone and the other with the power to turn vaguely (but not quite) invisible, against one with senses, hardiness, speed, precision and strength enhanced to their absolute maxima. To Claudia, Tiadrin blazed with colour, and she could smell the fear on both of them. It would be a pushover.

Claudia flipped up onto the ceiling, attempting to get behind the two, but they instead used it as an opportunity to separate, Claudia landing in the middle of them. Claudia slammed Avrain’s halberd into the wall, sticking it, but was blocked by his pushing the butt end out to trap her in. Tiadrin took her chance, dashing in and locking her weapon with Avrain’s, Claudia’s midsection trapped in the middle of them. As Claudia struggled, only serving to further wedge the weapons into the wall, Tiadrin drew her dagger and slashed it across Claudia’s throat, grinning in triumph.

And found herself frantically struggling for air that wouldn’t come as Claudia’s clawed hand closed on her windpipe, the unharmed mage laughing as she activated the sequence on Tiadrin’s polearm that turned it into an axe and shield, freeing herself.

Avrain tried to free his polearm, but was halted by a shout from above. Through dimming eyes, Tiadrin saw the old woman with a group of operatives, all pointing crossbows down the tunnel. Then, blessedly, air returned to her lungs as the smoking on Claudia’s pelt stopped and she shouted, “WAIT!”

Tiadrin collapsed to the ground, freed from the terrible grip, as Claudia called back up the tunnel.

“We have a valuable hostage. May as well let the one who brings the news be one who they won’t lock up. Let the boy leave – if he chooses to leave.”


End file.
